


Renegade's Legacy: Mirror, Mirror

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chasing down a haunting in a glass worker's shop, Sam and Dean launch a trainwreck into motion when Sam's soul is sucked into a mirrored universe of Stanford, before Jessica's death. His greatest ally: his de-aged brother, arriving like a thief in the night with the declaration, "Dad's on a hunting trip...and he hasn't been home in a few days." Left on the far side with Dean: Sam's Soulless husk, intent on sealing out the damaged soul forever. As Sam and Dean fight their way back to each other, they discover realities about themselves and about what it truly means to be a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_April 15 th, 2012_

_Midtown, Lincoln, Nebraska_

The roar of the Impala and the thrum of falling rain were the only sounds in an otherwise sleepy town.

            It was past midnight and the Winchesters had been around-the-clock awake for thirty-six hours, hitting the books, newspapers, and town history, all of it photocopied and neatly arranged in a record they’d absconded with from the police station.

The dim pocket flashlight wobbled in Sam’s hand as he yawned and checked his watch by its dim glow. One-thirty. Time was crawling.

            “Read me the case file again,” Dean said hoarsely, flexing his hands around the steering wheel. His bloodshot eyes were pinned on the swatch of road visible beyond the rain drumming off the Impala’s hood. When Sam just sagged his head against the window, Dean glanced over and popped him on the leg with the back of his hand, startling him. “Sam! Case file!”

            “Right, right.” Sam pawed the haziness from his exhausted eyes, blinked a few times to orient his staggered vision, and opened the manila file folder in his lap again. “Sixteen people have disappeared from Lincoln over the last six and a half years. No one knows why.”

            “First disappearance?”

            “Craig Fergesun. He vanished December third, two-thousand-and-five.” Sam rubbed his forehead. “Dean, we’ve gone over this file, like, a hundred times tonight. Do you really want me to keep reading?”

            “Practice makes perfect, Sammy.”

            Sam heaved a sigh. “All right, uh, all the victims have disappeared at night, like clockwork from this place called the Refraction Factory. The police tore the place apart, but, never found anything suspicious. They think some serial killer might be staking the place out, using it to choose the people he’s going after. But that’s speculation.”

            “And you got _all_ that from the hot receptionist at the station, huh?” Dean said with a cheeky grin.

            “Shut up, man.” Sam shook his head.

            “I’m just sayin’.” Dean grabbed his coffee and took a long drink, then crumpled up the paper cut and lobbed it out the window. “Sounds more like a ghost than a serial killer to me.”

            “Yeah. Me, too.”

            “So, what, we do some investigating of our own?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Hm? Little excavating, find the skeleton in the closet—literally—and then hit the road again?”

            “Maybe after we get some _sleep_.” Sam raised his eyebrows as the confused look Dean sent his way. “Dude. We’ve been hunting like crazy since Kansas. That was a _month_ ago. We’ve only caught two leads on the Mohera this whole time. We need to take a day off. Seriously.”

            “We’ll do that when we’re dead.” Dean sniffed.

            “Dean.” Sam insisted. “Let’s take some time off. Grab some quality food, drive out in the middle of nowhere—like old times.”

            “You know how much I hate those chick-flick moments.” Dean grumbled. “You heard anything from John lately?”

            Sam shut the file folder and leaned back in his seat. “Talked to him yesterday. He didn’t have anything new. Guess Mohera, whatever it is, is pretty scarce in the lore.”

            “He need our help?”

            Sam’s lips tugged into half a smile; Dean’s offer to help the Shifter he’d wanted to kill four months ago seemed like a step in the right direction. Not that Sam knew what direction that was, exactly; he just knew that _he_ trusted John, and he wanted his brother to do the same.

            “Nah. He said he’d call us if anything came up that he couldn’t handle.”

            “He say anything about that pressure in his head coming back?”

            Sam hesitated. “He said he still hasn’t felt it. And with the decrease in monster attacks lately—I dunno, Dean. It’s weird.”

            “Dude, this whole _thing_ is weird.”

            “Tell me about it.” Sam angled forward slightly in his seat, squinting, then slapped his flat palm on the dashboard and pointed. “Here, here, turn here.”

            Dean yanked the wheel hard right and coasted along the curb, bringing the Impala to halt across the street from a wide building, windowed front walls and a sign on the front half-obscured by the rain: _Refraction Factory_. The windows were strung up with multicolored globes.

            “Looks totally haunted.” Dean said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “What are those, lightbulbs?”

            “Blown glass orbs, actually.” Sam said. “Takes a lot of work to shape them that perfectly, though. Whoever owns this place must have a real talent for the art.”

            “My God, you geek.” Dean sighed. “You ready to get this over with?”

            “More or less.” Sam checked the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, then climbed out into the soaking rain.

            Underneath a striped awning with a small waterfall cascading over its edges, Sam crouched, pulled out his lockpicking kit and got to work on the front door while Dean kept an eye on the street; not that they were expecting much interference at this time of night. Still, it paid to be careful.

            “Got it,” Sam said triumphantly, feeling the tumblers slide into place. He jostled the knob and eased the door open, letting Dean in first and then backing in after him.

            The insulation on the roof and walls muffled the sound of rainfall; Sam shook the water from his hair, splashing Dean’s arm. Dean swiped at his sleeve with an offended expression, then fished out the flashlight from his jacket and clicked it on, sweeping the beam around the store.

            The thin beam bounced back off two dozen mirrors hanging from shabby, propped-up cubicle siding spaced unevenly around the room, a cashier’s desk lost in the seat of glass. Sam squinted at the glare coming back to them, twice as bright, raising a hand to shield his eyes. “Dean. Shut that thing off.”

            “Good idea.” Dean stowed the flashlight and pulled out his cell phone instead; the more muted glow was enough to light their way through the tangled web of mirrors, glass artifacts and old furniture. “This place seem creepy to you?”

            “Uh, seems like any other glass store, Dean.”

            “Yeah, you’re like a moose in a china shop here, huh?” Dean quipped, smirking.

            “Quit it with the big-guy jokes.” Sam said absently, running his hand over the dusty surface of a table shoved into the corner, wrinkling his nose. “Looks like a lot of this stuff hasn’t been touched in a few years.”

            “Yeah, well, I can guess what keeps business going.” Dean shined the dim light from his phone off the rafters. “Sixteen people disappearing in six years? Generates a _lot_ of attention.”

            “I’m surprised more people aren’t freaked.” Sam admitted, crouching and running his fingertips over the floor; solid cement. “I mean, sure, one or two people going missing is spooky—but _sixteen_?”

            “Ah, you know people, Sam, half the time they’ve got no sense of—”

            “What the hell are you doing in here?”

            Sam whirled onto his feet, sidestepping toward Dean as a scrawny, middle-aged, bespectacled guy stepped from the back room. There was a shotgun in his hands, aimed directly for Sam’s heart.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey.” Dean said uneasily, eyes following the muzzle of the gun. “Let’s just take it easy, all right?”

            “We’re not here to rob you.” Sam added, lifting his hands out in a soothing gesture. “We’re investigating the disappearances.”

            The man’s sights wavered. “What are you, some kind of reporters?”

            “Exactly.” Dean improvised. “That is _exactly_ what we are.”

            “And you _broke into my shop_?”

            “The door was unlocked.” Sam said quickly; Dean shot him a look, and Sam shrugged with a hapless expression.

            The man hesitated, then lowered the shotgun. “So you’re—looking into what happened here, huh?”

            “Yes, sir.” Sam said. “Can you tell us anything about the disappearances?”

            The shop-owner snorted. “Nothing that you’d believe.”

            Sam smiled disarmingly. “Try us.”

            “Why do you wanna know?” The guy asked.

            “So we can help put a stop to it. Obviously.” Dean said.

            The guy went incredibly still, staring at Dean.

            And then his face split into a horrible sneer. “What makes you boys think I _want_ it to stop?”

            He swung the shotgun up, but Dean was already moving; he grabbed the barrel and yanked it sideways, discharging the shot into the wall instead of its intended target, Sam’s head. Dean rammed his elbow into the guy’s forearms, snapping his hold, and he flung the shotgun sideways.

            Sam caught it and aimed, trying for a clear shot as the shop owner and Dean wrestled against the edge of the desk. The scrawny man slithered rapidly from Dean’s grasp and took off running into the back room.

            “Damn, he’s slippery!” Dean swore. He charged through the door with Sam right on his heels—and Sam nearly collided with him when a burst of glass and blood stopped Dean cold in his tracks.

            “Dean!” Sam grabbed the back of his brother’s jacket as Dean swiped an arm down the side of his face, where the shop owner’s aim had hit home: shards from one of the spun-glass orbs were imbedded deep in the side of Dean’s face.

            “Son of a bitch!” Dean howled.

            There was a crash of more glass as the man leaped toward the door on the far side of the room; there was another exit, a beaded doorway blocked by a bureau that was chest-high to Sam. Eyes narrowed, Sam shoved past Dean and took off.

            He scaled the bureau in one leg-swinging maneuver, sliding across the top, dropping down on the far side and rushing through the cascade of beads. Smacking them out of his way, Sam found himself in a room stacked completely floor-to-ceiling with mirrors; the harsh fluorescent glow of the streetlamp outside the window on the far wall caught and reflected a hundred times back to him,

            Squinting, Sam prowled through the room, watching every mirror for a companion reflection to his, some hint of where the shop owner was hiding.

            Sam heard a rustle of fabric to his left, against the back wall. He rounded the edge of a makeshift wall and leveled the shotgun for the shop owner’s back. “Freeze.”

            The man did, hands up, a drab olive blanket clenched in his fist. There was a gold-rimmed mirror leaning against wall in front of him, glinting mutedly and littered with dust from the blanket that had been covering it.

            “Face me.” Sam commanded, low and intent.

            The shop owner obeyed, slowly, his breathing labored, his glasses askew.

            “Tell me why you ran.”

            The man laughed. “Let me show you.”

            He looked toward the mirror.

            And dropped like a stone.

            Sam slid forward a step, shock making his forehead scrunch and his head turn to one side. He stared at the man’s inert form—

            A bright flash engulfed the room, ping-ponging off the dozens of mirrors, so bright Sam had to shield his face with his arm. When he looked again, the man’s eyes were closed. Breathing, but…completely still otherwise.

            “What the hell?” Sam muttered.

            Drawn by something more powerful that curiosity, Sam looked at the mirror.

 

 

            Digging shards of glass out of his unshaven jaw, Dean stormed toward the back room, slamming the door out of his way. Before, he’d just been annoyed by this guy; now he was pissed, bleeding, in pain, and _pissed_.

            “I’m gonna flay your ass, you sack’a—” Dean stopped, squinting against a vivid glare that spun across the faces of a hundred mirrors, searing into his retinas. “Son of a bitch!”

            The glow faded, and Dean caught sight of Sam, standing over the body of the shop owner at the back of the room.

            Okay. Either Sam had some kind of mojo Dean didn’t know about.

            Or.

            Dean heard Sam mumble something under his breath, and then he looked up at the mirror leaning against the wall.

            The sense of danger gripped Dean like a fist before he’d even figured out what was going on. “Sam, _no_!”

            For half a second, Sam’s head turned his way.

            Another burst of light arced through the room, like someone holding a miniature sun in their hand, or flicking on the world’s brightest flashlight. Then it winked out two seconds later, and Sam crumbled to the floor.

            Dean kicked a broken rocking chair and shoved several glass statues out of his way, letting them fall as he ran to his brother’s side, dropping to his knees and rolling Sam over on his back.

            Sam almost looked peaceful; and at least he was still breathing.

            “Sammy?” Dean grabbed the front of Sam’s shirt and hauled him up. “Answer me. Sam!”

            Sam didn’t move.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Unknown_

Fire seared through Sam’s head, digging in behind his eyes.

            Ashy-hot and intense, it burned its way through his entire body in a split-second and then seemed to focus in his mind; for one second, it was like his seizures, more intense than any he’d had, leaving what parts of him he was aware of, feeling crippled and rubbery.

            The fire all sucked away at once into a breath of blackness—

            Then exploded out over his head from behind a slender feminine form.

            Sam’s eyes snapped open. He scrambled, fighting off the blanket that had twisted itself around his hips. Blanket—not the floor of the Refraction Factory. Where the hell _was_ he?

            Sam sat up, trying to orient himself as the last slivers of flame burned out from behind his eyes. Dry, arid wind filtered in through the open window, rustling the thin drapes in a sound that was comforting and familiar.

            Familiar—from years ago.

            Sam looked down, to the lean, smooth leg that was tangled between both of his, and a jolt of recognition almost stopped his heart.

            He flung himself out of the bed, tripping over the blanket and crashing against the wall. He pulled himself around to face the bed, the warm air pricking his skin as he stared at the sprawl of golden-blond hair across the pillows.

            Sam’s fight-or-flight reflexes kicked in, leaving him rooted to the spot, rubbing an anxious circle against a sharp pain in his arm.

            “Sam?”

            That sleepy voice brought another aftershock quaking through him, half-pain and half-surprise. He stiffened, and didn’t answer, staring mistrustfully as Jessica’s head lifted from the pillow, and she blinked lazily up at him, and then, finally, seemed to register that he was standing by the bed in a t-shirt and sweats, still rubbing his arm, and just staring at her.

            Concern filled her bright eyes.

            “Sam? Baby, what’s wrong?” Jessica sat up, pulling her curly blond hair over one shoulder. “Did you have another nightmare?”

            “Another—what?” Sam’s mind was slogging through mud. Staring at her—another trick by Lucifer? No, the devil was still in the cage. So what was this, some kind of an illusion? Was he reliving his life, on the edge of dying? The last thing he remembered was looking in that mirror—

            And that feeling he hated. The splitting of self-from-self. Like when Castiel had tried to pull him from the cage, ripping Sam’s body from his soul, leaving an empty, angry shell walking topside while the rest of him was trapped in Hell.

            “Sam.” Jessica seemed to focus, her eyes intent, now, and more worried than before. “What’s the matter?”

            “I don’t know.”

            Sam felt like he was six years old, standing there staring at her, not sure if he could trust his eyes or his head or the part of him that was drawn to climb back in the bed beside her, wrap his arms around her.

            Jessica solved the struggle for him. She stood up, wrapping the sheet around herself, and approached him cautiously, stretching out her hand from a few feet away to gently caress his arm with her knuckles.

            “Come back to bed, Sam. Please?”

            And Sam crumbled; he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. Jessica bucked his hold for a second, trying to wriggle free.

            “Sam, what are you—?”

            Sam sank to his knees, pulling them both to the floor; tangling his hand in Jessica’s hair, his chin resting on her shoulder. She smelled the same way he remembered—freesia. The feeling of her warm skin against his made him feel so alive Sam couldn’t breathe.

            He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, Jessica’s head tucked under Sam’s chin, Sam stroking her hair. Gradually, he revived to the realization that she probably thought he was losing it.

            Sam pulled away, and met Jessica’s eyes; she still looked worried, but a small smile was tugging at the corners of her lips.

            “Was is that bad?” She cupped his cheek, and Sam leaned into her touch.

            “Bad enough.”

            “Do you want to try sleeping again?”

            The wind chased itself through the room, and Sam frowned at the window. Trying to trace it back—had he had a nightmare?

            “What did you mean about—another nightmare?” Sam asked, quietly.

            Jessica blinked, with a quick, tight smile. “Well, Sam, you know you—haven’t exactly been a deep sleeper lately. You said you were having bad dreams.”

            Sam swallowed.

            Something clattered, somewhere in the apartment.

            “Ssh.” Sam grabbed Jessica’s wrist, bringing her hand down from his face, twisting his head around to look at the door. “You hear that?”

            “Probably someone in the apartment next door.”

            “Maybe.” Sam’s brow furrowed. “Stay here.”

            He shoved onto his feet, keeping her hand in his until he had no choice but to let go. The room felt darker and colder without her touch.

            Down the hallway, the socks on his feet muffling his footsteps; Sam kept his back to the wall on his way to the kitchen, a dizzying sense of déjà vu overtaking him as he tilted his head around the corner and saw the moonlight washing through the windows, highlighting a hunched form rustling through the dark, searching for something.

            Lightning clarity struck Sam, throwing the entire impossible situation into relief; he straightened up, flipping on the lightswitch. “ _Dean_?”

            The figure shot upright, a beer bottle dangling between two fingers, and swung around to face him.

“Dude. How’d you know it was me?” Dean complained.

            Sam felt his eyebrows rise; he’d forgotten what Dean looked like, without the lines of distress and anger carved into his face. Without the unseen scars of Hell shining out of his eyes. He looked ten years younger, in a way that made Sam’s chest squeeze with pain.

            “Quit staring at me, would ya?” Dean kicked the fridge shut. 

Sam shook himself back to the present. “How did you get here?”

            “I drove the _car_.” Dean said, like Sam was five years old.

            “No, I mean— _here_ , here. Was it the mirror?”

            “ _Okay_ ,” Dean dragged the word out, leaning against the wall. “All that studying scrambled your brain, college boy.”

            “So, you didn’t—come here? After me?” Sam asked, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. Things were slowly starting to float into place.

            “Well, I was lookin’ for you, if that’s what you’re asking.” Dean took a swig of beer, never taking his eyes off of Sam.

            “Why?”

            “Sam?” Jessica poked her head around the corner, looking from Sam to Dean and back again, a guarded look in her eyes; Sam was relieved to see she’d gotten dressed—pink shorts. Smurf shirt.

            He put his hand to the wall and dropped his head.

            “You okay?” Dean asked him, and those two words hadn’t changed over six years. Right back to the start.

            “Who is this guy?” Jessica asked, linking her arms behind her back and watching Dean mistrustfully.

            Sam met Dean’s challenging green stare. “Jess, this is my brother.”

            A pause.

            “Wait. This is _Dean_?” Jessica said, with appropriate disbelief in her voice. “ _The_ Dean? I thought you said he didn’t know where to find you?”

            Sam winced, glancing at Dean—not missing the brief flash of hurt in his brother’s face before Dean pulled on a thousand-watt smile, and stepped closer to them.

            “Oh, sweetheart, I can find Sam anywhere.” He extended his hand to her. “Looks to me like he’s being taken care of, though.”

            “You could say that.” Jessica shook Dean’s hand. “Wow. I’ve heard so much about you. From Sam.”

            “Guess you’re the lucky one. I never heard about _you_.” Dean shot Sam an accusing glare. “’Course, I haven’t heard from Sam, either. In two years.”

            “Dean.” Sam said, a quiet warning.

            “But, hey.” Dean stepped back with a shrug. “I just came by for a beer and a chat with my little brother. Guess that’s not gonna happen.”

            He started to turn toward the door, and Sam lurched forward, grabbing Dean’s shoulder and yanking him around.

            “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” His voice, still quiet, but there was a hurt and a plea in there somewhere. He needed Dean to help him figure out what was going on; even if pride wouldn’t let him say it. Slipping back into this pattern, after all these years. “Tell me what’s going on.”

            Dean shrugged Sam’s hand off and turned around to face him. “Jessica. It’s Jessica, right?” She nodded. “I need to talk to my brother. Alone.”

            Jessica looked at Sam, and he pulled a smile, for her benefit. “Jess, can you give us a minute? I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

            “Yeah.” Dean said smugly. “He’ll _meet you in the bedroom_.”

            “Dean, shut up.”

            Dean pursed his lips dramatically and held up both hands in a There-Ya-Go gesture, rolling his eyes. Sam motioned with his head toward the doorway, and Jessica smiled uncertainly at him as she backed away.

            When Sam smiled back at her again, it was warmer, more genuine.

            When she was gone, he turned to face Dean. “All right. Spit it out.”

            “You’re not gonna like this, Sam. Just don’t go biting my head off, all right?”

            Sam pulled a bitchface, and didn’t answer.

            Dean half-smiled, and lifted his chin.

            “Dad’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

            Sam stared at him for a few seconds, letting those words—familiar, life-changing, echoing back across six years of bloodshed, suffering, and choice—wash through him and set fire to that part of him that still missed John, the part that had almost plaintively attached itself to the Shifter wearing his father’s face.

            And here they were. Right back at the start.

            “Oh, my God.” Sam mumbled, putting his back to the wall and sliding down until he was sitting with his knees up to his chest, hands digging into the carpet.

            “Hey, whoa-whoa-whoa. Sam?” Dean crouched in front of him, all twenty-six years old and full of concern again. “Hey.” Dean laughed, an unamused, nervous sound. “Hey, c’mon, you don’t even like the man. Why are you going emo on me all of a sudden?”

Sam stared at the floor between them, then met Dean’s gaze. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

            “Dad. _Missing_. On a hunt.” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled them both to their feet; right. Sam didn’t outweigh him as much now, years out of the field had made him soft, made Dean the stronger hunter.

            Somehow. Somehow he was back; Stanford, his personal white-picket life, a shade more real than Dean’s had ever been with Lisa and Ben. And right now, so concrete and solid around him, Sam didn’t think it was a dream or an illusion. He was really here. Back where he’d never belonged, watching everything happening the way it all had before. The worst déjà vu of his life.

            This was it, this was the first night that had sent his life really, honestly tripping and reeling out of control. All of it starting with those five words:

            _Dad’s on a hunting trip_.

            “Sam!” Dean snapped his fingers, startling Sam out of his stunned trance. “I need you with me on this one. We gotta find dad.”

            “Right.” Sam shook himself, cheek quirking as his bangs flopped into his eyes. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like. “Yeah, absolutely.” He cleared his throat. “Gotta find dad.”

            “Yeah?” Dean was giving him that look Sam hated—the one that made him feel like a freak with a third eyeball on his forehead. “What, that’s it? No preaching about how this school’s your life now? No telling me how much you hate dad? Hm? Hate the _life_ we pushed on you?”

            Sam laughed, a quick, short burst. “Believe me, man, I’m with you. All the way. This life, it’s not me. It never was.”

            Dean tilted his head slightly to one side, forehead scrunching. “Dude, you sure you’re okay? ’Cause this whole _It’s A Wonderful Life_ personality shift is really creepin’ me out.”

            Sam shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Dean snaked his tongue across his lower lip, his eyebrows rising with disbelief.

            “So that’s it? You’re gonna ditch the college scene for the weekend and come help me find dad?”

            And that was where Sam’s plans dead-ended; because leaving meant Jessica, dead. Jessica, burned on the ceiling. After he’d just gotten her back.

            Sam grimaced. “I said I was with you, Dean; didn’t say I was _going_ with you.” His eyes slid away from his brother’s. “I’m staying here. With Jessica.”

            Dean’s expression didn’t change, but there was a slow tic starting up behind his jaw. “Fantastic.” He turned away. “You know what, screw you too, Sam.”

            “Oh, Dean, _come on_.” Sam followed him, out the door and into the stairwell. Dim light fell down the steps ahead of them as they descended, and Dean didn’t turn around. “You don’t get it, Dean—”

            “Get _what_?” Dean swung around abruptly, almost crashing into Sam. “That you’re turning your back on your family? _Again_?” He spread his arms in a wide shrug. “No, I get it, Sam. Dad’s in trouble? Can’t get in touch with him? But _you_ got some big test or a hot chick in your bed and that’s it, y’know, we’re trash. I may not be some college-level genius, but I can figure out that much.”

            Standing stiff and still and ashamed, Sam wondered how he’d managed to fight leaving Stanford for this long before; how he’d been so careless about ditching John and Dean, that Dean would more or less expect it from him.

            Hindsight really was twenty/twenty, and this was the widest window to his past that Sam had ever seen.

            “Dean…just listen to me.”

            Dean’s jaw shifted, and for a second, with his hand curling tight around the railing of the staircase, Sam thought Dean was about to take a swing at him.

            But he just turned his back on Sam and headed down the stairs.

            Sam didn’t catch up with him again until the parking lot; and Dean was already opening the Impala door when Sam stopped beside him. “Dean, just listen to me.”

            “Goodbye, Sam.” Dean yanked open the door and Sam’s anger spilled over. He slapped a flat hand to the window, banging the door shut. Dean twisted around to face him, trapped in the narrow space between Sam and the Impala. The fight in his eyes almost made Sam want to laugh, in a painful way. Sam had six better years of experience on Dean now; even in a body that had gone lazy in the years at college, with the knowledge filtering through his head, he could pin Dean easily.

            “Would you just hear me out?” Sam hissed.

            Dean folded his arms and cleared his throat, one eyebrow sliding up.

            Sam dropped his hand off the door and stepped back. “I know you’re heading to Jericho. Last call from dad, the loop in the background—I get it. But he’s not there.”

            For one second, shock flitted through Dean’s expression, replacing the surly belligerence. Then he plastered on a superior smile.

            “Yeah, man, whatever. Keep telling yourself that. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He pulled the door open and slid into the front seat before Sam could stop him. With the familiar roar of the Impala vibrating through the pavement beneath his socked feet, Sam felt the irresistible urge to climb in shotgun beside his brother and go figure things out. Try to talk Dean into understanding this.

            Like that could ever work.

            Sam leaned his arm against the top of the car. “It’s a Woman in White, Dean.”

            Dean looked up at him through the window, unable to hide his startled expression. Mouth pressed into a grim line, Sam nodded.

            With a squeal of tires, the Impala pulled out, leaving Sam alone in the parking lot, awash in the cold city lights of Palo Alto, California.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_November 1 st, 2005_

_Stanford_ _University, Palo Alto, California_

Sam had forgotten what it felt like to walk into a house that smelled like cookies and flowers instead of whiskey and gunpowder.

            He kicked the door closed behind him and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet to his right, up at the top—where he’d stash them every couple weeks just to drive Jessica crazy, because she was too short to reach the top shelf. Smiling in the darkness, Sam filled a glass with water, sated the burning thirst in his dry throat, and braced his hands on both sides of the sink, looking up at his reflection in the mirror.

            If Dean had looked young, in this glimpse of the past, Sam looked _innocent_. Unaware of the demon blood pumping through his veins, unaware of Azazel’s plans for him, just pure, young, up-and-coming lawyer shining out of those eyes.

            Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Sam headed upstairs.

            Jessica was lying with her back to the door, the covers pulled up to her chin despite the warmth of the room. Sam leaned against the doorway for a second, just watching her; even the illusion Lucifer had created hadn’t done her much justice. Didn’t have that smell or that feel of her skin. Everything Lucifer blew cold—Sam would always remember that, from his time in Hell. So the doppelganger of Jessica had felt like a corpse, lying in the bed beside him.

            This time she was whole, she was alive and real; lying on the bed, breathing too fast, the way she always did when he came in late after studying and she was pretending to be asleep so he wouldn’t feel bad for keeping her up.

            Sam sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to run his fingers lightly through Jessica’s hair. “Liar.”

            She rolled toward him, grinning, white teeth glinting in the darkness. But the smile faded almost immediately. “What did your brother want, Sam?”

            “My dad’s out hunting.” Sam slid under the sheet and tucked one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “Dean hasn’t heard from him in a couple days.”

            “And he wanted you to help him find your father?”

            Sam frowned. “Yeah.”

            “Well, why are you still here?” Jessica’s tone implied that Sam was making a serious mistake in this situation.

            Sam rolled his head to the side, searching her eyes. “’Cause I know he’s not where Dean’ll go looking for him.”

            Jessica sucked in her bottom lip, worrying over it with her teeth. “Are you sure you can’t help him at all?”

            “Trying to get rid of me?” Sam teased.

            “Hardly.” Jessica laid her hand on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin through his thin shirt. “I just don’t want you to be miserable, worrying about your dad.”

            “Dean can handle himself.” Sam assured her. “I’m with you. That’s where I’m staying.”

            “If you’re sure—”

            “Definitely. C’mere.” Sam wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her up close to him, made it easier to angle his face down toward hers.

            Kissing Jessica reminded Sam of all the things he’d been missing; brought him back to Palo Alto—or forward, six years into the future, none of it made sense anyway—and the church where he’d killed the revenant of her cousin. The same church where she’d wanted to get married.

            It was a whole minute before Sam broke the kiss, and Jessica pulled herself up onto one elbow, looking down at him.

            “What’s gotten into you tonight?” She asked, curious but not accusing.

            “I dunno.” Sam said, and Jessica made a humming, disbelieving sound, turning over and curling back against his chest. Sam buried his face in her hair. “Just feels like I got a second chance.”

            “From Dean?”

            Sam didn’t answer.

            Jessica lay back down against him after a few seconds, snuggling against his side, and laughed softly, “Fine. _Be_ mysterious.”

            The wracking sensation of guilt was both remembered and alive under his skin; because all he had ever _been_ was mysterious with her, dancing and bending himself around the edges of the past he couldn’t escape, and couldn’t make her understand.

            But not tonight.

            Sam wrapped his arm around Jessica’s slender frame and closed his eyes, letting the warm quiet of the room lull him into peace.

            He was on the edge of sleep, the darkness behind his eyes dancing with the first fringes of dreams, when Jessica rolled over with a sigh, her warm breath tickling his throat.

            “If this is about not wanting to leave me alone for a weekend—Sam, I’ll be fine.”

            “S’not that.” Sam mumbled.

            “Are you sure? Because Brady’s coming over tomorrow, anyway—”

            Sam’s eyes bolted open. He snapped a glance down toward her. “ _What_?”

            Jessica looked up with confusion. “Brady. He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow. Remember? We’ve been talking about this for weeks.” When Sam just stared at her, barely breathing, Jessica cocked her head. “You sure you’re okay?”

            “Brady.” Sam echoed, unevenly.

            “ _Yes_ , Sam. _Brady_. Your best friend. Baby, what’ wrong?”

            Because Sam was out of the bed, pacing, all of the weight suddenly crashing back onto his shoulders, shattering the illusion of peace created by moonlight and the dry wind. Because Brady was still here, a demon after Azazel’s own frozen tundra of a heart, and Jessica was still on the very top of their hit-list. She was going to die, tomorrow, and Sam didn’t have a knife or a gun to drop a demon.

            Sam’s mind retreated to the only place it knew of where safety was almost definite, where he’d known sanctuary, in another life.  Before this one. Or. After it. However time worked itself out, here.

            “Pack your stuff.” Sam said, his voice hollow to his own ears. “We’re leaving.”

            “Sam?” His name was spoken as a question, but Sam was already out of the room. going to the jacket he knew was hanging by the front door, and the phone that he knew was in that pocket, because he always kept it there.

            And then Jessica’s hand was on his arm, stopping him.

            “Sam! Look at me!” She snapped, and she sounded so much like her cousin, Sadie, that Sam froze, memories colliding. “Tell me what the _hell_ is going on.”

            “Jess.” Sam gripped her shoulders, and met her eyes. “Brady wants to _kill_ you.”

            He felt her muscles stiffen beneath his fingers. “What?”

            “Yeah. He told me.”

            “Oh, and you _just now_ decided to share that little piece of information?” Jessica snapped. Sam dropped his gaze.

            “I didn’t want to scare you.”

            “Well, good job, Sam. I _am_ scared.” Jessica said, and the steeliness ebbed from her voice, leaving a shaky softness behind. “Why does Brady…want—?”

            “I can explain. Later.” Sam insisted. “Right now, you need to grab a bag of clothes, and follow me.”

            “Follow you _where_?”

            “I know a place where you—”

            Sam broke off as the light at the end of the hallway flickered ominously.

            Jessica glanced at it, then at Sam, and something in his face must have alerted her to the severity of the situation, because she gripped his hand tightly, winding her fingers through his.

            “Sam?”

            “We need to go.” Sam reached around her, wrapping his hand around the top of her arm. “Now. Right now.”

            The light fizzled and almost popped.

            “Now!” Sam roared, spinning them both toward the door—

            And stopping, frozen.

            Brady stood in the open doorway, arms spread slightly from his body, palms turned out toward them. His top lip curled in a sneer.

            “Sam. So good to see ya, buddy!” He tilted his head to one side. “Where are you heading at _this_ late hour? Don’t you have an interview on Monday? Need to be good and rested up!”

“We’re going,” Sam said, stiffly. “ _Out_.”

“See, that’s _funny_.” Brady said, his voice loud in the narrow hallway. “Because you seem awfully spooked, Sam.” He tapped his fingertips carefully on the doorpost. “You running from something?”

Sam lifted his chin, jaw working, and didn’t reply.

Brady smirked, his gaze slanting sideways. “Jessica. Hi there, sweetheart.”

            Sam swept Jessica behind him with one arm. “You stay the hell away from her!”

            “Oo! Touchy, touchy, Sam. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna mess with your girl.” And a sheen of blackness spread across Brady’s eyes. “Much.”

            “ _Sam what’s wrong with his eyes_?”Jessica’s words all flowed together in a rush, both of her arms wrapped around one of his, pinning it behind his back, and Sam could _feel_ her fear. The same way he could _feel_ the danger billowing from Brady.

            “What I want to know is: how did you figure it out?” Brady mused. “Because I _never_ told you about Jessica. How I’m going to flay her pretty, porcelain skin into strips. Tear her guts out while she crisps on the ceiling.” Sam felt Jessica flinch, and press closer to him. “So I _really_ wanna know how _you_ found out.”

            Sam pulled a tight, feral smile, and shifted his weight.

            Brady lifted his head and sniffed deeply. His brow scrunched. “Huh. Your smell’s different, buddy.”

            He regarded Sam with something like caution.

            “You have no idea,” Sam said, coldly. “What I’ve done to your kind.”

            Brady observed him for a few more seconds; then a smile blossomed across his face, dark and delighted.

            “Oh, yeah, there’s definitely something different about you. You’re not the knuckles-under little worm I’ve been watching for a year and a half.” He sneered. “But you’re not gonna be able to stop it, Sammy-boy.”

            “Try me.”

            “Oh, I’ll do you one better.” Brady said. “I’m gonna burn her on the ceiling, and you’re gonna watch.”

            Before Sam could react, a crushing force of demonic power slammed him up against the wall. Jessica lurched toward him, one hand out, and Brady stepped fluidly between them, grabbing her by the throat, lifting her off her feet and throwing her skidding down the hallway. She fetched up hard against the wall with a cry of pain.

            “Jessica!” Sam craned his head off the wall, feeling like he was fighting against a tidal wave pinning him to the plaster. _Dammit_ , he’d gotten soft, too used to demons being unable to fling him. “Jess!”

            Brady grinned, patting Sam’s cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll finish this nice and slow and painful.”

            He strolled down the hallway toward Jessica’s crumpled form.

            “No— _no_! Jess!” Sam thrashed against the psychic force pinning him to the wall. “Stay away from her— _Jess_!”

            She picked up her head, looking up, groggily, at Brady. Her eyes flipped wide and she started to scramble backward, until her shoulders hit the wall, and she was left staring up at the demon as he crouched in front of her, grabbing her chin in his hand.

            “Time’s up, sweetheart.”

            Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his chin in, trying to reach into the psychic sieve in his own mind, to draw out the power he knew was lying dormant inside. He hated it, but he _needed_ it, he needed to save—

            “ _Sam?_ ”

            His eyes flew open. “Dean!”

            His brother skidded over the threshold, aiming for Brady’s back. “Salt rounds?”

            “Demon!”

            “ _Holy shit_!” Dean discharged a shot and Brady screamed in pain, wrenching around. Dean racked the shotgun single-handed and fired again, and Sam tucked his head again and gave a final desperate _shove_ with his power, snapping the iron cords of demonic mojo pinning him to the wall. He dropped on one knee, leaped back to his feet and ran down the hall, slamming Brady back against the wall and sucker-punching him in the jaw hard enough to dislocate it.

            “Grab Jessica!” He howled at his brother, crushing Brady’s nose with the heel of his hand. Dean darted past him, pulled Jessica to her feet and wrapped his arm around her waist, half-dragging, half-helping her toward the door. Sam lurched onto his feet and kicked Brady’s head, knocking it against the wall, then bolted after his brother and girlfriend.

            They stumbled out onto a mostly dark street, lamps lining the street still flickering on and off. The Impala was idling, half up on the curb. Dean all but flung Jessica into the backseat, then slid across the hood and piled into the driver’s side. Sam had his hand on the shotgun door when he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his shoulder.         

            Blossoming almost immediately into excruciating pain.

            He slammed chest-first against the window, fingers seeking out the bloodstain spreading rapidly across the back of his right shoulderblade.

            He twisted around to look back up at the apartment complex.

            Brady was standing on the doorstep, Sam’s gun in his hand; his face a contorted rictus of pain and rage, streaked with blood, he took aim.

            The window behind Sam cranked, sliding against his back, and Dean’s voice was a whiplash command: “Sam, _down_!”

            He smacked onto his chest on the curb, the report of the discharging rock-salt round cannoning into the night. Brady ducked, and Sam scrambled back, popping the door with his hand out behind him, and sliding into the shotgun seat. He’d barely closed the door when Dean peeled out, smearing black stripes of burned rubber on the asphalt.

            Seconds later, Dean’s hand found the back of Sam’s neck, shaking him. “Sam, you with me? _Sam_?”

            “Oh, God, baby! _Please_!” Jessica screamed.

            Sam shook the sparkling black dots from his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain, sitting up, slowly. “I’m good. I’m good, just drive.” He panted.

            “Here.” Dean reached under his seat, pulling out a crumpled heap of rags and tossing them over the backseat. “Make yourself useful.”

            Sam knew Dean didn’t mean any disrespect by that; that his worry and anger were making him more clipped and commanding then usual. So he didn’t argue his brother’s curt dismissal of Jessica, just leaned forward slightly, and Jessica pressed the wad of rags against his shoulder.

            They drove aimlessly through winding streets of Palo Alto for half an hour before Dean eased his foot off the gas pedal a bit, his tight grip on the steering wheel loosening. He looked over.

            “Sam, you good?”

            “Nngh.” Sam grunted. His fingers were playing merry hell against the front of his shoulder, itching to touch the hole that Jessica was applying gentle, steady pressure over. “Not so good.”

            “Crap.” Dean muttered. “Through-and-through?”

            “No.” Sam rasped. “It’s still in there.”

            “Son of a bitch.” Dean’s foot pressed the pedal down again. “The hell was that thing, Sammy?”

            Sam breathed raggedly through his nostrils. “Demon.”

            “You mean, like, evil-for-evil’s-sake demon?” Dean demanded. “Son of the devil type of thing?”

            That torqued an ironic smile from Sam. “Yeah.”

            “Dude. What the hell was it doing going after _you_?”

            “Wasn’t after me.” Sam twisted his head around to look at Jessica, and her eyes widened, her hand loosening slightly on his shoulder.

            “Me?” Her lower lip trembled.

            Sam nodded, mutely.

            Dean glanced at the rearview mirror. “Dude, your girlfriend’s hot, but what’s a _demon_ want from her?”

            “Wanted her dead.” Sam said. “T’get to me.”

            “It was _Brady_ , though.” Jessica said. “How was it Brady?”

            “That’s what demons do.” Sam answered. “They possess people. Brady hasn’t been Brady since we met, Jess. He was playing both of us.”

            “How did you know?” Jessica asked. “How did you know what it was?”

            Sam slanted a look up at Dean, and his brother shrugged. “Couldn’t hide it forever, Sammy.”

            Sam leaned his forehead defeatedly on his knees, and Dean started talking.

 

 

            “So all those things I used to read about as a little kid—all those stories my mom told me after church. Those are all real?”

            They were parked on the side of the road, Sam sitting with his long legs sprawled across the front seat, Jessica straddling him, holding his forehead against the crook of her neck. Dean was bracing him from behind, one hand on Sam’s back while he used the sterile forceps from their first-aid kit to gently pry apart the hot, bruised edges of the bullet hole in Sam’s shoulder.

            It hurt like nothing Sam had felt since he’d ripped the wall in his head apart to save a girl in Memphis; it was a dancing white blaze of pain, more vivid than he remembered gunshot wounds could be. But still somehow muffled. It made him nauseated and unsteady.

            “Pretty much, yup.” Dean answered Jessica succinctly, tapping a knot on Sam’s spine with the forceps. “This is gonna hurt, bro.”

            “Just do it.” Sam gritted, his hand gripping the underside of the seat in an iron fist.

            Dean nudged the forceps gently in, and Sam sucked in a hard breath, his muscles rebuking the pain, threatening to buck. Jessica gripped fistfuls of his hair in her hands, pulling his head tight to her shoulder. Sam breathed in her perfume and tried to steady his breathing, to work his mind around the agony.

            “How long have you known about all of this?” Jessica demanded.

            “Since we were kids.” Dean answered. “Sam was eight when he found out. I was four. Our mom died.” Dean’s voice barely hitched, but it was enough.

            “And you fight them. Dean. You fight monsters?”

            “Sam too. Before he went to Stanford.” Dean said, and Sam had known his brother long enough to hear that hint of pride in his voice.

            “I can’t believe this.” Jessica murmured into Sam’s hair.

            “Unicorns are fake.” Sam almost spat the words out, feeling the horrible scrape of forceps against bone as Dean’s practiced hands hunted for the bullet. “Leprechauns—real.”

            “They are not.” Dean protested.

            Sam kept quiet.

            After five more minutes of agonizing prying, Dean let out a triumphant breath and, “Got it!” Then, more seriously, he added, “Hold still, Sammy.”

            Sam squeezed his eyes shut, pulled in a breath, and let it out in staccato bursts as Dean slowly, carefully maneuvered the forceps out, leaving a cold, hollow trail in the flesh and muscle behind.

            A minute and a half later, it was over. Dean was pressing rags to the hole in Sam’s shoulder and he relaxed in Jessica’s hold.

            “Lemee stitch this up, and we’re good to go.” Dean said.

            With the gentle tug and pull of the familiar needle moving through his skin, Sam  watched Jessica’s introverted face.

            “What are you thinking?” Sam asked, reaching up to brush her hair from her face, and she flinched back, visibly.

            Something heavy and sharp clattered in Sam’s gut, and he dropped his hand.

            Jessica tucked her hair self-consciously behind her ear. “Sorry, I—”

            “Me, too.” Sam murmured, looking away.

            Dean clapped him on his good shoulder, then straightened and slammed the car door. Jessica climbed off of Sam and levered herself into the backseat, and Sam twisted around gingerly to face her.

            “You should sleep.” He said.

            “I know.” Jessica said around a yawn.

            “Want Dean’s jacket?”

            “I’m okay.” Jessica stretched out on the backseat, her back to him, and Sam could see that same posture, hear that same breathing that always told him when she was pretending to be asleep.

            Dean slid in behind the wheel, with eerily good timing that made Sam think his brother had probably been giving them room to talk.

            They pulled back out onto an empty road going nowhere; Sam didn’t even know where they were right now. Most of the early dawn hours were a blur of blood and pain, and now it was well after sunrise.

            “How’d you know?” Sam asked, quietly, staring out the window. He felt Dean’s eyes turn on him, and added, “To come back for us.”

            “Radio started going haywire.” Dean tapped the dash with his fist. “Lights were flickering, whole nine yards. Thought it might be a ghost or something.”

            And Dean’s first instinct had been to turn around and make sure Sam was all right. He smiled, leaning his temple against the cool window.

            “So. Demons.” Dean said. “Pretty big player, huh? Why was he after you?”

            “It’s a long story.”

            He felt Dean giving him That Look again; the one like Sam was a freak. Even after all these years, it didn’t just roll off of him. He doubted it ever would.

            “You been doing some research while you were at school, Sam?”

            “Something like that.”

            Another fit of silence, and it was almost uncomfortable.

            “So, where are we headin’?” Dean asked.

            “Drop me and Jessica off at a car dealership.” Sam said; he’d already thought this through. “You need to go to Jericho.”

            “Right.” Dean said, plastering on that condescending tone. “Because of that, uh, _Woman in White_ out there.”

            “Dean, I’m serious. That’s what it is.” When Dean just snorted, Sam added, more forcefully, “Look, you know _something’s_ out there. Even if I’m wrong.”

            “ _Even if_?” Dean echoed. “ _Even if_ you’re right, Sam, I’m not just gonna ditch you and your girl and go chasing after some dead chick. That can wait.”

            “No, Dean. It can’t. People are gonna die.” Sam said. “ _Trust_ me on this.”

            Dean rocked his shoulders uneasily inside his jacket. “Fine. What are you gonna do after I drop you off?”

            “Take Jessica to Bobby Singer’s place.”

            “ _Bobby_?” Dean said, loudly, and Sam made a shushing motion with his hand, nodding toward the backseat. Dean swooped his voice low. “Sam, we haven’t seen Bobby in five _years_.”

            “It’s a safe place.” Sam said, and Dean scoffed. “Dean. You _know_ it is.”

            Dean pulled an unhappy grimace, then gave in surprisingly easily. “So after I hunt whatever’s out in Jericho, and find Dad, you want us to meet you up at Bobby’s place?”

            “No. Palo Alto. I’ll head back after I know Jessica’s safe.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah, I’m sure.” Sam said, quietly. “Got some loose ends I gotta tie up.”

            And Sam intended to make a detour to Sioux Falls by way of Colorado.

            To pay a visit to Daniel Elkins.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_April 15 th, 2012 _

_Lincoln Luxury Inn, Lincoln, Nebraska_

Dean was sick of bad mojo getting worked over on his brother.

            It had taken him five minutes to kick his brain back into gear, after he found Sam sprawled unconscious—okay, he’d thought dead. After he thought he’d found Sam _dead_ on the floor and he’d taken a breather to make sure _Sam_ was still breathing. And then he’d dropped a line to the local P.D. telling them that the Refraction Factory was under investigation by the FBI and nobody was allowed in without going through him, first. Which had given him free rein to set up the crazy shop owner’s body on a foldable cot in the back room of the store, before he’d slung Sam’s arm around his shoulders, hauled his brother up and dragged him out to the Impala.

            The ride from the store to the motel had been pretty painful, to say the least, Dean’s head in constant swivel motion from the backseat to the windshield and back again, checking every two seconds to see if Sam had snapped out of whatever trance he was in. Nothing changed, though, not even that damned shallow breathing.

            Now Dean had Sam inside their cramped motel room, after a lot of swearing and staggering through the pouring rain, and he was staring down at his brother sprawled haphazardly on one of the starchy beds. Mopping the rainwater off his face with a dishrag from the mini-kitchenette, which was pretty small even for small, Dean tried to figure out his next move.

            Obviously, trying to wake Sam up was pointless; he’d already tried that about a dozen times, everything from yelling in Sam’s ear to smacking him in the face, and nothing even made him twitch. No crazy, frantic jumping behind his eyelids, either, which had to mean he wasn’t dreaming. He was just—out. Be back in five, gone to lunch, empty office space _out._ Just like the shop owner guy. So they were in the same boat—up the creek on the S-S-Royally-Screwed.

            Winchesters had been on that slowly-sinking-ship so many times, there were rooms reserved in their names.  

            The side of Dean’s head was killing him; the rain had washed most of the blood off his cheeks and jaw, but the glass that bastard shop owner had flung at him was still imbedded deep in his skin. Trying to move his jaw as little as possible, Dean went to the bathroom, clicked on the dim fluorescent light, and took stock of the injuries.

            At least two dozen cuts stood out stark, angry red from his cheekbone back to his hairline. Luckily the glass shards had missed his left eye, or he’d’ve been _seriously_ screwed. As it was, he was just in for a lot of pain.

            A needle from their first-aid kit, a tiny pair of tweezers and a white washcloth stained red, and it was bathroom surgery on the spot. Using the mirror for reference, Dean fished out every piece of glass he could access without splitting his skin wide open. Smaller ones stayed in; he’d let those work their own way out. He stitched the bigger cuts closed, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his duffle and rinsed out the wounds, teeth gritted against the pain.

            Then he went back into the main room of the motel, shutting the bathroom door behind him, and checked on his brother.

            He was in the same position Dean had left him; literally hadn’t budged an inch. And there was something eerily familiar about how he wasn’t moving. Dean just couldn’t figure out what it was.

            Not dead, though. Sam wasn’t dead. He was still breathing and the bulge of his carotid artery was pumping fast against the side of his neck. So he was alive, and alive was good, because _alive_ Dean could work with.

            He dropped down on the other bed, sitting on the edge, hands clasped with his chin resting on them. If he hadn’t found the shop owner in exactly the same kind of MIA state, Dean would’ve thought this was some mega-seizure putting his brother under. But there weren’t any of the signs of that, either; no sweat pooling in the hollow of Sam’s throat, no spasmodic head jerking as he battled flashes of Hell.

            “What the hell, Sam.” Dean muttered.

            With nothing else to do and no idea how to help his brother, Dean grabbed his phone and punched in Bobby’s number.

            It picked up after two rings. “Dean? It’s four in the morning, what’re you callin’ _me_ for, idjit?”

            “And yet, you picked up.” Dean pointed out. He tossed a glance over his shoulder, toward the bed. “It’s Sam, Bobby.”

            He could almost _feel_ the shift, Bobby getting focused. “What happened _now_?”

            “Yeah, well, that’s the thing. I dunno what happened. We’re workin’ a case out in Nebraska, one second he’s fine and the next thing I know he just—drops. Stone cold out of it. Hasn’t woken up since.”

            “Was it a seizure?”

            “Doesn’t look like it.”

            “Was he—poisoned, maybe. Somebody drug ’im?”

            “Dammit, Bobby! I _don’t know_.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “He seemed fine, and then he was on the floor. But it’s like he’s—stuck.”

            “Stuck.” Bobby echoed.

            “Yeah, y’know, like, _frozen_. He’s not dreaming, doin’ that twitchy little dream-dance or anything, he’s not even _moving_.” Dean swallowed a massive lump lodging its way into his throat. “Bobby, something’s wrong with my brother. I don’t,” He squeezed his eyes shut, cleared his throat with a raspy chuckle. “I dunno what to do.”

            Bobby puffed out a sigh. “Hang tight. I’m comin’ to ya. Give me the address.”

            “Yeah, it’s, uh, Lincoln Luxury Inn.”

            “Lincoln’s about three hours from here, Dean. Think you can make it that long without your soup gettin’ stirred?”

            “My soup?” Dean scrunched up his face, then sighed. “Just get here, Bobby.”

            “On my way.”

            Dean hung up, flipped the phone closed and pressed it to his mouth for a second, shutting his eyes. Then he tossed it on the bed, paced back into the bathroom and pressed his hands over his face.

            He kept reliving the last few seconds in the glass shop, over and over again in his head. That light, so freaking _bright_ it had left swirly patterns of purple and green behind his eyelids when he blinked. And then Sam had just dropped.

            So had something attacked him? And the shop owner? Dean has cased the entire building but it’d turned up Bupkiss. Maybe the guy had been playing with a ghost and things just gotten out of hand, wrong place, wrong time.

            Still didn’t explain what had actually _happened_ to Sam. Why he’d dropped like a bag of bricks. Shop owner, too. Dean had never seen a spirit that could dump somebody into Never-Neverland inside their heads in a split second.

And even though the shop owner seemed like a royal douchebag, it wasn’t like Dean could just leave him strung out to dry. Had to figure out what was going on and try to reverse it on both of them.

Dean cranked on the water, splashed a handful on his face, then straightened up and looked in the mirror.

And Sam was right behind him.

Dean spun around, one hand grabbing the sink for balance. “Whoa! Dude, you scared the crap out of me!”

Sam didn’t blink, didn’t move, just stared at Dean for a second.

And then, slowly, his eyes narrowed down into that _look_ that Dean knew so well it chased shivers up and down his spine. The You-Are-An-Insignificant-Piece-Of-Trash-Under-My-Boot look.

Sam’s hand latched around Dean throat, swinging him around and slamming him up against the wall. They were chest to chest and Dean felt like he was staring into black pits instead of his brother’s eyes, empty, no feeling _chasms_.

“S’m,” He choked against the iron grip on his larynx.

“Sammy’s not home right now.” Sam jerked the gun out of his waistband and traced the muzzle tantalizingly down Dean’s injured jaw, pulling a huff of pain from his lungs. “I thought you’d figured that out. Remember—no more pretending.”

The butt of the gun cracked against Dean’s forehead, and he dropped.

His senses vanished in a whirlwind of dark.

 

 

The first thing Dean was aware of was the blood.

It trickled down in soupy ropes over the bridge of his nose, sticking his eyelashes together. He could feel it before he could feel anything else. He put up a good fight to unstick his gummy lashes, testing his dexterity by tilting his head to one side. That was when he realized his cheek was resting against something cold, hard and scooped-out. His head felt like someone was playing billiards with his braincells and a hot poker.

Groaning, he finally managed to peel his clotted eyelids apart, and found himself eyeballing the world’s biggest centipede about two inches from his nose.

He jerked, violently, and the movement lanced pain up into his shoulders. His arms were tied behind his back, wrists knotted together by something that felt like a leather belt. _Just great_. Forcing himself to relax just to spare the pain, Dean watched the centipede slither away across the side of the—bathtub.

He was lying on his side in the motel bathtub, ridiculously uncomfortable, with his arms tied behind his back and a throbbing cut above his eye.

He flexed his fingers—totally numb, the belt was triple-wrapped and knotted tight—but at least they were all intact. He twitched his feet; still functional. The gun bashing against his skull had rattled his brain, but he didn’t think it was a concussion; probably not. He’d know for sure once he tried to sit up.

That was when he realized there was another sound in the bathroom, aside from his squirming and the hum of the lights above the sink; it was the familiar, tingling slip-and-slide motion of a knife on a pocket whetstone.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up.” Sam’s voice was flat. Totally _flat_. No inflection. “I figured out where we are.”

“Coulda told you that.” Dean mumbled, spitting blood that had run into his mouth from his lacerated forehead. “Except—oh, wait. You knocked me unconscious.”

“I didn’t know where I was or if you were even you, Dean.” That same flat, quiet tone. It was starting to bug Dean already. “I had to be safe.”

“Great. Well, you figured it out. You wanna untie me now, Sam?”

The knife kept chafing against the whetstone, and Dean’s skin prickled.

“Sammy?”

            Sam snapped the whetstone closed and his boots thumped on the floor. “Sorry, Dean, I can’t do that.”

            The way he said it. Not like it was something debatable, like it was just the natural order, like it made sense. _Logical_. Calculating.

            Dean heaved himself up onto one elbow and looked over his shoulder so far his neck twinged.

            “Are you _Soulless Sam_?”

            Sam stopped in the doorway and glanced slowly around at him, his face a perfect mask of imitated confusion. “We’ve been over this, Dean.”

            He sauntered out.

            “Crap.” Dean collapsed, half on his back, his shoulder twisted awkwardly under him, breathing stilted as he stared at the ceiling. “Holy, crap.”

            Demon-Sam, Memory-Loss-Sam, Stubborn-Sam, he’d dealt with all of those. Come out on the other side maybe a little freaked, but feeling like he understand his brother, probably better than he had before.

            Soulless Sam was a walking nightmare. Ticking time-bomb didn’t even cover it; he was a nuclear warhead with no timer, no way to be contained. And the only thing that had gotten Dean through hearing Sam scream bloody murder while Death crammed that white-hot mass of soul back into his body was knowing that on the flipside, he’d never have to deal with this soulless, dangerous son-of-a-bitch ever again.

            And here they were.

            And how the _hell_ were they even here, anyway? And where was Sam, _his_ Sam?

            The bathroom door swung open again and Soulless walked back inside with a rag in his hand; he ran it under the water in the sink, not looking at Dean. Then he walked over, crouched beside the tub, and aimed the rag for Dean’s face.

            Dean yanked his head away; force of habit. Didn’t want this guy touching him, didn’t want him within a hundred miles of _close_.

            Soulless Sam frowned; his hand moved fast, catching Dean’s chin in a hard hold, and then he started cleaning the blood off of Dean’s face. Which was really weird but not as bad as getting gagged, which was what he’d figured they were heading for. That or waterboarding. Or suffocation. Death-by-dirty-dishrag-down-the-throat, that was a new one.

            “I didn’t want to hurt you, Dean.” Soulless said casually. “Once I’m out of town, I’ll make a call so someone can find you.”

            “Yeah?” Dean grated belligerently. “So that’s it, you’re just gonna take my brother’s body and parade off into the sunset again?”

            “Again?” Soulless cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed. Passing for confused again. Dean _hated_ this guy. “Huh.”

            “What?” Dean snapped.

            “Nothing. I just—I must’ve hit you harder than I thought.” Soulless let go of Dean’s chin and rocked back on his heels. “You’re not making sense, Dean.”

            “ _I’m_ not making sense?” Dean rasped. “Look who’s calling the kettle black.”

            “I don’t have time for this.” Soulless got to his feet, stuffing the bloodstained rag into the bottom of the trashcan and wiping his hands on his knees. “Look, I know you’re not going to understand this, and I can never _make_ you understand. You got me this far away, and—I’ll give you credit for that, Dean. You’re not as much of a spineless, pathetic loser as I thought you were.”

            Dean pulled his head back, surprised by the blunt words. After having Sammy back for six months months, he’d pretty much forgotten what it was like to have this asshat around. “Well, thanks. ’Course, you’re just as much of a gutless, soulless dick as I always pegged you for.”

            “Cute.” Soulless glanced out the bathroom doorway like he was waiting for something. “But this is where we stop running. I know you talked to Bobby earlier, and I know he’s on his way. We don’t have much time.”

            Something uneasy started churning in Dean’s gut. “Bobby? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

            “You know why I need him.” Soulless said; he stopped pacing and met Dean’s eyes. “Dean. You _know_ why.”

            It filtered in, all the pieces falling into place, and a cold wash of horrified anger spilled through Dean’s guts. “You case-brained bastard. You really don’t know what happened, do you?”

            Soulless frowned. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that.”

            “The _soul_.” Dean said, struggling to sit up with his back propped against the side of the tub. “ _Sam’s_ soul.”

            “Right, right.” Soulless nodded indulgently. “You still want to fish that piece of pulverized meat out of the Cage. And, like the good little soldier I _used_ to be, always _compliant_ , you want me to sit around and _just take it_. Right?”

            “Listen up, you sack of—”

            “No, Dean, _you_ listen.” Soulless cut him off, fierce and furious—or as close to furious as someone without emotions could get. “I don’t _want_ that ball and chain wrapped around my ankle anymore. You and Bobby both know I’m better off this way. And I’m sorry it had to come down to this, but—when it’s all over, you’ll see.” He nodded with conviction. His huge, backfiring brain had worked through the channels, crunched the numbers and made _this_ the best conclusion. “I’m better off this way.”

            “And what about Bobby?” Dean demanded, stalling. “Huh? You’re just gonna slit the man’s _throat_?”

            “I have to complete the ritual, Dean, because you’re too _stubborn_ to let this go.”

            “Dammit, Sam, don’t _do_ this!”

            “I’m sorry.”

            Soulless walked out, slamming the door behind him. Dean rocked his head back against the wall, pulling his shoulderblades in and flexing his wrists against the leather belt. Soulless had tied it pretty tight; the metal buckle chewed into Dean’s skin, leaving a bruise he could _feel_. So twisting out would be a pain; but if he didn’t do it, Soulless would paint a ritual on the walls in Bobby’s blood.

            And Dean wasn’t gonna let that happen.

            He leaned forward, bracing his forehead on the edge of the tub, and bucked his wrists hard, twisting against the scratchy resistance of the leather strap. It chafed uselessly against his skin and Dean kept at it, flexing his forearms, shimmying his hand, trying to get it out—

            He heard a knock on the motel room’s door, cutting through the quiet.

            Dean’s head kicked up, eyes wide.

            “ _Bobby_!” He hollered, and he wrenched his arms outward one last, desperate time.

            Something  popped; his shoulder wrenched out of place at the same time his hand came loose and Dean howled the pain out, stripping the belt off his wrist and lurching out of the bathtub.

            He kicked the bathroom door open.

            Soulless had Bobby pinned to the wall; the faithful old demon-killing knife was in his hand, arcing toward Bobby’s throat.

            “ _No!_ ” Dean flung himself across the room, crashing into Soulless Sam’s shoulder. They smashed into the door, buckling, splintering wood, and the knife slashed in sweep toward Dean’s face. He threw up his arm to block it, letting the blow drive hard into his arm instead of his face, the tip of the knife splitting the skin. Dean snapped his free hand around, grabbing the knife by the hilt, then cocking his arm up, elbowing Soulless in the jaw. Soulless lost his hold on the weapon and Dean wrenched it free.

            And then Bobby was there, grabbing Soulless in a chokehold, one hand bracing his head in a way that was a warning: struggle, and get your neck snapped. Soulless bucked it for a few seconds, then went limp, slumping, and within fifteen seconds Bobby eased up his hold.

            Soulless slithered unconscious onto the floor at Bobby’s feet.

            “You all right?” Dean demanded, and Bobby wiped an arm across his sweaty face, and nodded.

            “Kid jumped me as soon as I walked in. Caught me off my guard.” He picked up the knife and threw it on the bed. “I owe you one.”

            “D’aw, son of a bitch.” Dean heaved onto his feet, grabbing his dislocated shoulder and staggering across the room. His brain felt like it was on fire, nothing fit, he couldn’t focus.

            Not until Bobby caught up to him, grabbed him from behind and popped his arm back into place.

            Dean swore, spinning around to face him, and Bobby just stared at him. There was a thin necklace of blood around his throat.

            “You wanna tell me what’s going on around here, Dean?”

            “You saw.” Dean rasped. He grabbed a beer out of the mini-fridge and clapped it onto his throbbing shoulder, sinking onto the bed.

            “Do my eyes deceive me, or was that Sam de-souled again?”

            Dean looked up at Bobby, helplessly. “I dunno what happened to him, Bobby. But it’s like he doesn’t—he doesn’t remember getting his soul back. Y’know, he doesn’t have any idea about all the crap that’s happened since then, either. He’s like Khan coming out of stasis, whole knew world and all that crap.”

            “And he doesn’t remember having the soul back at _all_?”

            “Uh-uh.” Dean shook his head. “He was talking like I’d just pulled him off you.” He blinked, and looked down at the crumpled form of his brother. “Six months ago.”

            “Balls.” Bobby murmured, sinking onto the bed beside Dean. “So we’ve got Terminator-Sam back on our hands? And he’s still out for my _head_?”

            “Looks like.”

            “This ain’t good, Dean.”

            “Tell me about it. I was pretty glad being shot of this guy.”                                     

            “That’s not what I mean.” Bobby said.

            Dean arched an eyebrow, then winced, shifting the bottle around so the cold part was back on his shoulder. “Then what?”

            “If this empty shell is back on the assembly line,” Bobby said gravely. “Then what happened to the _real_ Sam? Where’s his soul at?”

            Dean didn’t say the first thing that came to mind.

            That Sam’s soul was somehow back in Hell.

          

 


	5. Chapter 5

_November 1 st, 2005_

_Brown’s Salvage Yard, Bishop, California_

“Dean, this place is five _hours_ out of your way.”

            “ _Relax_ , Sam, I got this.”

            They were parked across the street from Brown’s Salvage Yard, a run-down lot that lacked the finesse and sprawl of Bobby’s home in Sioux Falls; but it was all they could find on short notice, and Dean didn’t like the idea of Sam renting a car.

            “If you’ve got a demon on your ass, you’re not laying a trail, Sam.” He’d finally said after two hours of whisper-yelling argument while Jessica slept in the backseat. “’Cause I said so.”

            Which meant Sam wasn’t supposed to argue; and six years ago, he would’ve fought Dean’s bossy attitude until he was blue in the face. As it was, he’d gotten accustomed to Dean calling the shots; and besides, his brother had a point. Brady was smart, cunning, and worse than a hound on a blood-trail. If he caught wind of any activity that even remotely smelled like Sam, he’d be after them faster than they could run.

            Sam mentally cursed his younger self for becoming _this close of friends_ with a demon. His instincts had been rusty as hell.

            “What time is it?” Dean reclined in the seat with a yawn.

            Sam checked his watch. “Nine o’clock.”

            “Mmmf.” Dean grunted, glancing into the backseat. “Dude, your girlfriend sleeps like the dead.” He paused, then added, “Metaphorically speaking.”

            Sam half-smiled without any real feeling behind it.

            Jessica hadn’t been sleeping for most of the ride; she’d just been playing it off. Sam could hear the way she’d been breathing, way too shallowly, trying not to miss any of the conversations they were having. And the truth was, with her along for the ride, Sam was beginning to understand why him and Dean made such a good team.

            They understood each other, they understood the life. Yon the road, you drank in moderation, ate a granola bar when you were hungry unless you were about to stop for the night—which was when you got the biggest meal of the day, big enough for probably two or three people—and most importantly:  you didn’t _stop_. Not unless somebody was bleeding to death.

            Alone, that worked; alone, they could keep that up.

            Not with a civilian along for the ride.

            The first hour after they’d stopped to dig the bullet out of Sam’s shoulder, they’d needed gas and, at Dean’s insistence, some Gatorade to help revive Sam after all of the excessive bleeding he’d done. That hadn’t been all they’d gotten, though; Jessica had downed a whole bottle of water on the road and they’d stopped to let her pee three times after that; then she’d gotten hungry, picked IHOP, and had them sitting in a booth for two and a half hours. Not that Dean had complained about the endless pancakes, but the thought of a demon on their tails really made for an awkward breakfast.

            Then there’d been the two glasses of orange juice, two coffees and a to-go milkshake from the pancake house that’d had them on more pit stops than Sam could count. All of that because Jessica had a habit of eating her feelings. Or burying them that way, which was basically the same thing but Sam’s brain was having trouble stringing thoughts together. He was still a little woozy from all the bloodloss.

            But all that eating, not to mention their ordeal the night before, had finally knocked Jessica out; now she really _was_ sleeping, and Sam was grateful. It made talking to Dean easier, knowing that they wouldn’t be overheard.

            “Fifteen minutes.” He said, rocking his head back to look at the roof of the car.

            “How’s the shoulder?” Dean asked.

            Sam shifted his jaw; he was pretty sure he’d be bleeding through the bandage soon, but he didn’t want to waste any of the gauze they had left. “Fine.”

            “Yeah, sure.” Dean sat up. “C’mon, let me see.”

            “Dean, it’s fine.” Sam insisted, squirming away.

            “Right, and I’m Aunt Jemima.” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and shoved him around, yanking down the collar of his t-shirt. “Dude, it looks like you got mauled by a Great Dane.”

            “Thanks.” Sam bit out, glaring out the window. While Dean plucked and peeled at the edges of the bandage, Sam felt is anger slaking. He half-turned back toward his brother. “Hey. Dean.”

            “Uh-huh.” Dean pushed him back around and Sam tried to relax, sighing, rolling his eyes up to see the stars outside the window.

            “It’s really good to see you again.”

            Dean froze for a second; then he reached around and clapped a hand to Sam’s forehead. Startled, Sam jumped.

            “Ow! What was that for?”

            “You got a fever or something?”

            Sam shoved Dean’s arm off. “Man, I’m fine! Stop mothering me.”

            “When you start saying girly crap like that, Sam, I start—” He broke off with an awkward snort.

            “Worrying?” Sam’s lips twitched into a smile.

            “Shut up.” Dean went back to his shoulder.

            The next ten minutes were totally quiet, except for the intruding chirring of crickets in the tall grass outside the car. Sam’s exhausted eyes slid closed; he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and was feeling the strain like a conscious weight, slogging his body down. And he’d have to drive for at least three or four hours before he’d feel safe enough to stop; if even then.

            “Sammy!” Dean barked, giving him a sudden, violent shake. “Still with me?”

            “Guh.” Sam grunted, picking his head up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m awake.”

            “Look, you sure you don’t want me to take you and the Blonde Wonder up to Bobby’s?”

            “The case—”

            “Man, screw the case. Are we doin’ this, or not?”

            Sam’s intended reply was cut off when the salvage yard’s nightlight spluttered and warbled to life, casting a harsh orange glow over the disused cars inside. It reeled Sam back—or forward—to sitting beside a motel in Essex, watching the streetlamp gutter while they waited on a case.

            Sam shook his head and shoved the door open. “Let’s go.”

            Dean muttered something under his breath, climbing out and leaning against the driver’s side door while Sam popped the back and crouched, resting his hand gently on Jessica’s hair. “Jess?

            She stirred, picking her head up and blinking at him sleepily. “Sam? Mmm, where are we?”

            Sam’s throat slithered in an uncomfortable swallow. “Still on the road.”

            Jessica glanced out the windshield, then squeezed her eyes shut with a sigh. “I thought,” She mashed the heel of her hand against her eye. “Maybe. It was just some crazy dream.”

            “Guess we’re not that lucky.” Sam shifted closer. “Listen, we need to make a run for it. Get a car, head north. You ready?”

            “Get a car.” Jessica said, her gaze pinned to his face. “You mean _steal_ one.”

            “We can’t leave a trail.” Sam parroted what Dean had told him. “Not with Brady trying to follow us, Jess. You know that.”

            She pressed her lips tightly together. “Sure. Sam. Whatever you say.”

            Eyes pulling taut at the corners, Sam offered her his hand. She ignored it, pulling herself out the opposite door and into the street beside Dean. Sam slammed the door and walked around the car to join them, ignoring Dean’s raised eyebrows and his Something-I-Should-Know-About? Look.

            “So? What’s the plan?” Jessica asked, rubbing her bare arms.

            “First things first.” Dean slung his heavy leather jacket off his back and around Jessica’s shoulders. She tried to push it back to him, but Dean cocked his head with a serious expression. “Please. I insist.”

Sam shot Dean a bitchfaced look over Jessica’s head.

“Next order of business, we find you two lovebirds a car.” Dean threw out the sides of his flannel shirt and crossed the street, checking both ways for cars. Jessica glanced at Sam, and he nodded for her to follow.

            They scaled the chain-link fence into the back of the lot, Sam giving Jessica a leg over. Inside there was a bountiful selection of cars, everything from classic beaters to new but damaged models. Sam found himself eyeing a Dodge right off the bat—something sleek and sporty that was the opposite of his taste in cars. Something that could get them where they needed to be, fast, and without drawing attention because it wasn’t the kind of car Brady would peg him for taking.

            “This one.” Sam gestured to it, stopping Dean’s vulture-circling-its-prey dance around a decent Kutless.

            “Man, if the Impala ever gives out,” Dean began, and then he realized how close he was to blasphemy, shut up, and walked over to join Sam. “Dude, this thing sticks out like Quasimodo’s friggin’ back. You sure about this?”

            “Definitely.” Sam replied, quietly. “It’ll help throw Brady off our trail.”

            Dean wagged his head slowly back and forth with a look of grudging admiration. “Not bad, little brother.”

            Sam smiled as Dean shimmied open the Dodge’s door and started hotwiring the car; he glanced at Jessica, swallowed up totally in Dean’s jacket. “We’re gonna be fine.”

            “No, Sam. We’re not.” Jessica replied sharply.

            Sam had a feeling they weren’t talking about the same thing.

            The Dodge rumbled to life a few seconds later; Sam clapped Dean briefly on the shoulder before sliding into the front seat. He checked the gas gauge: half full. They could make it a ways without stopping.

            Jessica joined them beside the car and started shrugging off Dean’s jacket; Dean grabbed her shoulder to stop her.

            “Keep it.”

            Jessica’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

            “Somebody’s gotta take care of a pretty girl like you.” Dean smirked at Sam, then opened the shotgun door for Jessica. She kissed him on the cheek and climbed inside; both of them ignored Sam rolling his eyes.

            Dean shut the door, then leaned in through the open window. “See you back in the big C-A in a couple days?”

            “You bet.” Sam nodded. “I’ll call you.”

            “Hey.” Dean added as Sam put the car into gear. “Watch yourself, Sammy.”

            Wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, kept staring out into the salvage yard. Typical Dean.

            “Yeah. You, too.”

            Sam rolled out, Dean walking ahead of the car, unlatching the gate and yanking it open. With one last look at Jessica, huddled in the seat beside him, Sam punched it, gunning the car onto the open road and heading north toward Colorado.

 

 

            The angels never did completely clean up their mess.

            It took Sam a lot of talking to convince Daniel Elkins to loan him the Colt; and the man remarked about a boy coming around his place thirty years ago, asking for the same gun. Saying he needed it to save his family. Sam finagled his way into the situation with that incident as leverage, convincing Elkins that the girl who was with him—and who was currently using Elkins’ bathroom—would die if Sam didn’t use the gun.

            In the end, after Sam explained that he was John Winchester’s son, Elkins reluctantly agreed to lend him the gun, but made Sam swear to bring it back. Sam agreed, and then they were hitting the road on the track to Sioux Falls.

            It was the most awkward car ride of Sam’s life, with the Colt lying wrapped in a dishrag on the seat between them and Jessica shooting acidic glances at it every few minutes. She hadn’t said two words to Sam since Mammoth Lakes, wouldn’t even look at him, just kept her forehead pressed to the window.

            Sam raked a hand back through his—shaggy, way-too-short—hair, rubbed his hand across his forehead, beneath his bangs, and sighed.

            He was tired, his shoulder burning hot and cold. It was another fourteen hours to Sioux Falls and they’d already been on the road for eleven, not counting all the driving they’d done with Dean.

            Sam was beat, run thin even by his own standards. And whatever stamina he’d built up when he’d gotten back in the saddle with hunting after his memory loss, was being shredded by this jolt into the past.

            “Jess.” Sam said, quietly, watching the highway being gobbled beneath the tires. “We have to stop. Just for a couple hours.”

            She scrunched against the door. “Okay.”

            They stopped in Westminster, Sam deliberating between renting a ramshackle motel or squatting—and finally deciding on the latter, since the only credit card he had on him was still in his real name, and he’d bet the Colt that Brady was keeping one beady black eye on Sam’s bank account.

            _Finding_ a place to stay—easier said than done. Not as many abandoned or foreclosed-on houses these days. Twenty-twelve and the housing crisis sometimes made their job easier.

            After another fifteen minutes of cruising through streets bathed golden-pink after sunrise, Sam found a decent place: single-story, not falling apart yet. He cased the street twice before he got out, opened Jessica’s door for her and then grabbed the Colt, leading the way up the flagged path to the front door. He tried the doorknob—locked. Then checked under the flowering pots on both sides of the door—bingo.

            Holding up the spare key with a satisfied smile, Sam unlocked the door and let Jessica inside first, backing in after her and closing the door.

            The place smelled musty, and stale.

            “Hmm. Looks cozy.”

            Sam locked the door.

            Hands snapped against his back, throwing him chest-first into the door. His chin cracked the chain lock, splitting his lip. Slim fingers knotted into his shoulder, yanking him around.

            Jessica grinned at him, a feral slash of bright white teeth beneath lightless, inky eyes.

            “Good job covering your tracks, buddy-boy.” She taunted. “Really shouldn’t have left sweet little Jessica alone in that gas-station bathroom, though.”

            Sam snapped his elbow up, breaking her hold, and grabbed her throat. “You get out of her, you black-eyed son of a bitch!”

            “Oh, sticks and stones, Sammy.” The demon taunted, letting Jessica’s eyes flick back to their normal green. “But y’know, I like it in here—nice and warm and comfy. And Jessica’s in here with me.” The demon turned Jessica’s head to the side. “She’s screaming at you. You wouldn’t believe how angry she is. She thinks you’re a class-act Martian, buddy. A whole new level of _freak_.”

            Sam shoved Jessica back, a flush of fury heating up under his skin. “Believe me, Brady. I’m the last hunter you wanna screw with.”

            “Maybe I don’t want to _screw with you_ , Sam.” Brady straightened—straightened _Jessica’s body_ —and sneered at him. “Maybe I just want you _dead_.”

            Sam tightened his grip on the dishrag-wrapped parcel in his hand. “No.”

            “No?” Brady cocked his head.

            “No, you want me back on the road. Or at least, your boss does. He wants me out there. Hunting. Honing up my psychic powers so when the time comes, I’ll exorcize Lilith, break the final seal. Set _Lucifer_ free. And start the Apocalypse as the devil’s gift-wrapped _prom dress_.” Sam spread his arms wide and shifted his weight. “How am I doing so far?”

            Brady regarded him, for the first time, without antagonism or haughtiness; but with something that looked like fear.

            Then his face—Jessica’s face—slipped into a cunning mask. “Well. You caught me, Winchester. You’re a little more in the know-how than I thought. But we’ll see how long you can keep running,” He reached into the pocket of Dean’s jacket and pulled out Dean’s butterfly knife. “When this bitch’s blood is all over your hands.”

He flipped the knife open, and in a split second Sam knew what the demon was going to do; stab Jessica, or slit her throat, kill the vessel, and smoke out.

His reaction, pure instinct; Sam lunged, jabbing his hand against Jessica’s throat, letting the knife scissor into the back of his hand—then grabbing her arm, twisting it around behind her back and ramming her up against the wall, chest-first.

“ _Exorcizamus te. Omnis immundus spiritus…_ ”

Jessica’s head snapped around, a shrieking roar ripping out of her throat, and slammed her elbow into his nose, almost breaking it. Sam grunted and curled his hand around, slamming her cheek flat against the wall and holding her there.

            “ _Omnis satanica potestas. Omnis incursio—_ ”

            Jessica’s head snatched back, twisting under Sam’s grip, a spew of sulfurous black spiraling out of her mouth, receding rapidly into the vent on the ceiling.

            Her body went slack, her back arching into Sam’s chest, and she sagged over his arm. Sam caught her, pulling her back against him, sinking to his knees with her head tucked under his chin.

            “Jess? Jessica. Hey, hey.” Sam cradled her face to his chest, then tilted her head back, holding her cheeks gently with his hands. “Jessica!”

            She roused, slowly, blinking against the daylight fanning through the window. Her forehead creased with unease. “What did I—?”

            “It’s okay. It wasn’t you.” Sam said; the exact same words Dean had used on him, after Meg had infested his body and then been banished.

            Jessica frowned at him. “Sam, your nose.” She reached up with the sleeve of Dean’s jacket—clogging Sam’s senses with the rich smell of whiskey and leather—and pulled it back streaked with brackish red. “Oh, God, baby. What happened?”

            “It got inside you. The demon.” Sam stood up, pulled her to her feet and picked up the butterfly knife, resting the razor edge against the corded muscles of his forearm. “Don’t look.”

            Jessica turned her eyes away at the last second when Sam dragged the tip of the knife down his arm, a thin trickle of blood following the blade down. He saturated his fingers in it, then nodded to Jessica. “Pull down the collar of your shirt.”

            “Sam, what—?”

            “Just do it.” He avoided her gaze, knowing how this must look; hearing the echo of Brady’s taunting words. Taunting him, in _Jessica’s_ voice: _she thinks you’re a whole new level of freak_. “Please.”

            Jessica hooked two fingers around her shirt collar and tugged it down; and Sam traced a perfect replica of the five-point sigil inside the ring of fire, in stripes of scarlet on her skin. The same one he had, the same one Dean had—or they _would_ have them, in a few years; not permanent, but it would last long enough.

            Sam wet his hand again, tracing the same pattern over his own heart. Then he  shook the blood from his fingertips. “We have to go.”

Jessica nodded, mutely, not fighting, so Sam knew he didn’t even to explain. But he did anyway: “That thing could be anywhere. Could be anyone. We can’t stop—not ’til we get to Bobby’s.”

“Sam,” Jessica said. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep. Can’t we just—?”

“No.” Sam cut her off firmly, then added, with an effort to soften his voice, “I’m sorry, Jess. We can’t take that chance.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded, reluctantly.

Back outside, across the dry, crunchy grass. Jessica climbed into the shotgun seat and closed her eyes, looking shaken and insecure. Sam wished he could take five minutes just to wrap his arms around her. If she’d let him.

He started the car, gripping the steering wheel tightly, and took a deep breath.

“Look, you’re—gonna have to talk me through this.” He said. “I don’t wanna fall asleep and get us both killed.”

For the first few minutes, motoring down the street, Sam thought Jessica was going to ignore him; then she sat up, wiping her nose on the jacket sleeve.

“I was possessed?”

Sam nodded. “Demons, they—get inside you. It wasn’t your fault.”

Jessica nodded, staring down into her lap.

“I was just using the bathroom.” She said, waveringly. “And that _thing_ came in under the door and it just,” Her expression twisted with disgust.

“Jammed itself down your throat?” Sam offered.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yeah, they do that.”

“And you _hunt_ those things? You and your brother?”

Sam frowned through the windscreen. “It’s complicated.”

Jessica glanced down at the speedometer, her eyes widening. “Sam, you’re going ninety miles an hour.”

Sam growled out a long, unsteady breath. “That demon? Brady?” He caught Jessica nodding, out of the corner of his eye. “He was— _inside_ you for a long time, Jess. Everything Dean and I were talking about? He heard it. He knows we’re going to Bobby’s.” He gripped the wheel tighter. “I just hope we can beat him there.”

“And—Bobby. Who _is_ that?”

“He’s…sorta like a father to me.”

Jessica squeezed her eyes shut. “You have a weird family, Sam.”

“I know.” Sam agreed, glancing at her. Her face was pale and she was chewing on her lower lip. “Hey.” Sam reached over and hooked her hair behind her ear; and this time, she let him. “How’re you holding up?”

“A demon just tried to use me to _kill_ my boyfriend.” Jessica snapped. “How the _hell_ do you think I am, Sam?”

One side of Sam’s mouth pulled up in half a smile. Because if she was pissed, that meant she cared; it meant she was fighting back.

“Sam.” Jessica said after a couple of quiet minutes. Sam checked the rearview mirror and switched lanes.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think you’re a freak. That was just that— _thing_. Talking. I just need some time. All right?”

Sam nodded, and didn’t say anything.

He had a feeling they didn’t _have_ time. His run-in with Brady had left him with an itching feeling of unease under his skin. The things he knew, _being here_ , in the past, and the way he could bend it—hadn’t Castiel told him and Dean that time was fluid? They couldn’t change the course of history. But here he was, with Jessica, alive, beside him, and Dean working that case in California, alone. Everything was different.

And Sam had a feeling that wasn’t a good thing.

Thirteen and a half hours to go.

 

 

            Bobby’s salvage yard, at least, looked the same.

            Not that Sam could really see it all that well, with his eyes sliding closed and only Jessica’s constant stream of chatter keeping his head from nodding onto his chest. He parked outside the back door and all but crawled out; his shoulder was throbbing in tandem with his head, and he was so tired, if he’d been a kid he probably would’ve started crying.

            Jessica scrambled out and helped him straighten up; with the cacophony of Bobby’s dog, Rumsfeld, howling in the background, they staggered toward the back door of the house.

            The door opened before Jessica could knock on it.

            “ _Sam_?”

            “Hey, Bobby.” Sam mumbled, leaning hard against the doorpost. “Look, I should’ve called, but I—”

            Bobby cut him off, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him in for a hug. Sam hung his head onto Bobby’s shoulder and closed his eyes; six years from now, things with Bobby weren’t going to make sense. There would be a lot of bad blood and mistakes clouding the water between them. But right now Sam couldn’t imagine feeling safer.

            Bobby finally set him back and looked him up and down. “Boy, what the hell are you doing here? I haven’t heard from you Winchesters in _years_.”

            “We need to use the panic room.” Sam crammed his hands into his pockets.

            Bobby stepped back, a sudden mistrust in his eyes. “How’d you know about that?”

            Right. Sam could’ve kicked himself. Bobby hadn’t shown them the panic room in the first place until after Dean had come back from Hell.

            “I’m not a demon.” Sam assured him, dragging down the neckline of his t-shirt, showing Bobby the speckled sigil on his chest. “Neither is she.” He glanced at Jessica over his shoulder. “We need your help.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

_November 4 th, 2005_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, Iowa_

For the first time in months, Sam’s dreams weren’t full of bloody flames and pain.

            He woke up with the steady, familiar if not entirely welcomed thumping of the huge fan over his head. It didn’t take him five minutes like it usually did to orient himself to his surroundings, dragging himself up from vivid nightmares of the Cage, Lucifer’s hand down his throat, or of being topside, soulless. He recognized the drab walls of the panic room, huge bolts holding salted, reinforced iron walls together, the gun racks and Bobby’s beaten desk shoved against the walls, making room for the cot where Sam was sleeping—with Jessica curled into the curve of his body.

            Head pillowed on his arm, Sam watched her through his eyelashes, trying to hold on to the moment; she’d been drinking hot chocolate forced on her by Bobby—Sam was surprised the man had anything other than whiskey in his house, at this point—when he’d fallen asleep. Which had been the best thing for her, still shaken up by the possession. And if anyone could talk her through it, it was Bobby. Bobby, who’d lost the love of his life because of demonic possession, before Sam’s time.

            He’d been able to peel his fingers off his adrenaline-laced hold of reality, knowing Bobby was taking care of Jessica.

            And at some point while he’d been swimming through dreams so deep he couldn’t even remember them now, she’d crawled in beside him.

            Sam slid an arm around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing out in one long, wavering gust until his lungs emptied—then slowly, reluctantly, peeling open his eyes.

            Bobby was sitting by the door, a lore book plopped open on his knees. Wasn’t reading, though, he was watching the two of them. In a way that really made Sam feel awkward.

            “Don’t look at me like that.” He said, levering himself up on one arm, trying to jostle Jessica as little as possible and rubbing his arm across his eyes. “What time is it?”

            Bobby checked his watch. “’Bout five in the mornin’.”

            “Great.” Sam yawned.

            “Kid, you wanna tell me what the hell’s got you back on my doorstep after all these years?” Bobby closed the book and folded his hands on top of it.

            “I don’t know.” Sam admitted. “Things are weird, Bobby. I mean—really weird. And I just,” He shrugged one shoulder. “Wanted to go to someone I knew I could trust.”

            “You talk to your daddy about this?” Bobby asked. Sam shook his head. “Dean?”

            “Yeah.” Sam scooted off the foot of the bed. “Dean helped us get the car.”

            Bobby sat back, arms crossed. “You weren’t sayin’ much when you got in, Sam. And I let you sleep ’cause you looked like you’d gone ten rounds with a wildcat. But you need to level with me, boy.”

            Sam crossed the room, put his back to the door and slid down until he was sitting by Bobby’s feet. With his eyes on Jessica, he told Bobby everything—everything that made sense, omitting the parts about how he’d already lived through this life once, differently. And everything he knew about the Apocalypse, he kept to himself.

            Bobby nodded a couple times and his eyes narrowed when Sam told him about Brady possessing Jessica. And he finally huffed a sigh and pulled off his hat, rubbing a hand across the balding top of his head.

            “So, what’s next?”

            “Uh,” Sam glanced at him. “Kill Brady, I guess.”

            “ _Kill_ Brady.” Bobby echoed. “A demon.”

            “I did my homework.”

            Bobby narrowed his eyes. “Sam, don’t tell me you’re plannin’ on using some fool spell or ritual. Those things can bite ya in the ass, nine times outta ten.”

            “Trust me, no spells. No rituals.” Sam assured him.

            “Then _what_?”

            Sam eyed him, wondering how much Bobby would believe. “Samuel Colt—”

            “ _The_ Colt?” Bobby put two-and-two together lightning fast. “You’re telling me you actually found… _the_ Colt?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “How in the—?”

            “Long story.” Sam cut him off.

            “All right, look, I’m—happy you and Dean are talking again. Lord knows you boys need each other.” Bobby said awkwardly. “But I get the feelin’ you aren’t tellin’ me the whole story, Sam.”

            Sam tried to pull on that innocent, confused face he used to be expert at. “I don’t know what you’re—”

            Something clattered above their heads; they both looked up, in one, quick sweep, and Sam felt something cold creeping across his skin.

            “He’s here.”

            He knew Bobby was watching him. “Now you listen here, Sam. Colt or no Colt, I’m not lettin’ you go up against a _demon_ all by yourself. These sons-of-bitches are scarier than Hell—so to speak.”

            “I can handle it.” Sam shoved up onto his feet.

            “No,” Bobby grabbed his arm. “You _can’t_.”

            Sam looked down at him, and realized that this wasn’t the Bobby who had watched him grow up; through the demon blood and the psychic strains. Wasn’t the man who’d knelt beside him in the rain, scooping handfuls of soupy mud over Dean’s casket. Wasn’t the Bobby he’d tried to kill, who’d flown to Essex to help him save Dean, who’d sat beside Sam’s bed while he warred for control over his memories.

            And this Bobby didn’t realize Sam was different: older, and more mature. The things he’d seen, and done, almost in another life.

            Sam pulled his arm free, “Give us a minute,” and he nodded to Jessica. 

            Bobby grumbled and stood up and walked over to the desk, slamming the book down and opening it. With a tight, small smile, Sam sat on the edge of the cot, rubbing Jessica’s back lightly.

            “Hey.” He murmured. “Jess.”

            She tucked in her chin, and her head rocked up. She blinked sleepily at him. “Are we leaving again?”

            Sam shook his head. “No. No, you’re staying down here with Bobby.”

            “What about you?”

            Sam didn’t answer.

            Jessica scrambled up in a flurry, knocking the blanket off. “Sam, no. Baby, please don’t go after that thing, _please_.”

            “Jess, I _have to_.”

            “No, you don’t. You can call Dean, he can—”

            “Dean can’t do this, Jess, he doesn’t know how.” Sam interrupted curtly. When Jessica just stared at him, eyes wet with tears, Sam picked up her left hand, turning it over. “I need you to know something.”

            She sniffled. “What is it?”

            Sam cradled her cheek with his free hand. “You were the only chance I ever had at being happy outside of the job.”

            Jessica curled her hand tightly around his wrist. “When this is over, we can talk about it. I promise, we can try to make it work, Sam.”

            The thing that’d made him lose sleep for the year and a half that they’d been dating. The nightmare that all of this would pull her away from him. And here she was, offering him everything he’d ever wanted. And he didn’t even have to give up his brother, or the job, or the things he was good at, to have it.

            He kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

            The Colt was tucked in the dirty clothes he’d changed out of before falling asleep; Sam slid it free, nodded once to Bobby, and let himself out, locking the door behind him.

            Bobby’s house was a _loud_ kind of quiet; Sam prowled toward the stairs, the Colt angled downward, and slid his feet up, step by step, until he could gently shoulder the door open at the top.

            The whole house was pre-dawn dark, and Sam’s neck prickled uncomfortably. Checking all sides with a sweep—and wishing Dean was there to cover his back—Sam stalked toward the kitchen, swinging around the corner with the Colt raised.

            No Brady.

            A shuffling thump echoed from the study, and Sam put his back to the wall, sidling up to the corner, and peering around it.

            Brady was pulling books off the shelves at random, dropping them on the floor. Impatient, no longer trying to hide himself.

            Sam aimed the Colt at the back of the demon’s head.

            A jet of demonic energy slammed him back against the counter, pinning him hard to the rounded edge. Sam spat up his air, barely keeping his hold on the Colt as Brady swiveled around on heel to face him, a smile carving his young face into a sinister split.

            “Sam, Sam, Sam.” He clicked his tongue mockingly. “You _knew_ I was gonna find you here. But you came,” He leaned his elbow on Bobby’s desk. “Anyway!”

            “Guess I’m too stubborn to know what’s good for me.” Sam grated out.

            “Well, I’ll give you that one.” Brady glanced out the window. “So, before we get down to business, I wanted to tell you about an interesting little scrap of information that I managed to dig up.”

            Sam tried to peel his arm off the counter, with no avail. “What?”

            “You, buddy boy,” Brady crossed the room in five steps and patted Sam’s cheek condescendingly. “You’re not from our world.”

            Sam strained his neck, his head tilting to one side. “What are you _talking_ about?”

            “See, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, if I hadn’t smelled your dirty little soul.” Brady sniffed the air dramatically. “Smells like Hell-char and demon blood! So I made some calls, asked around. And you know what I found out?” He slouched against the counter beside Sam. “You, you’re a drop-in. Yep! From a whole ’nother reality, pal. And you can bend _all_ the events in _this_ world. However you want.”

            Sam took that in like curling his body around a punch; he’d think about that later, about how that was _possible_.

            “So, you know what that means?” Brady backed up, his eyes on Sam, slipping coal-black. “That just means we gotta break you faster. You’re invaluable, Sam. And a real threat to our plans now that you’ve got all that extra knowledge in that huge, thick skull of yours.”          

            Sam’s jaw shifted. “We both know you’re not gonna kill me.”

            “No. You’re right. But you know what I am gonna do?” Brady pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m gonna peel Jessica’s skin off in strips while you watch. And the old man? I’ll feed him his spleen.”

            Adrenaline and anger were thumping in Sam’s ears, the rich cacophony of a wardrum. “If you touch—one _hair_ , on their heads—”

            “You think that’s brutal? _Please_.” Brady scoffed. “That is _nothing_ compared to what I’m going to do to your brother. Dean? We’re gonna have a great time. I think I’ll take a little siesta inside _your_ body, Sam, and you can help me while I shove my hand down his throat and tear his heart out. We’ll carve him to pieces while he’s still breathing. How’s that sound?”

            And Brady was the unfortunate one.

            Because even Lilith would learn, one day, what happened to Sam’s psychic abilities when someone threatened his brother.

            Sam’s power ballooned out of nothing, snapping Brady’s and hurling the demon ass-first onto the floor. Brady sat up, shaking with shock—and got a faceful of the Colt’s barrel, hammer cocked, and Sam’s finger steady on the trigger.

            “I don’t think so.”

            The report of gunfire was surprisingly loud in the small, cramped kitchen; Brady crumpled, his head blasted, sparks shooting from his ruined neck as the demonic presence inside of him was extinguished.

            Sam set the Colt on the table, raked his hands back through his hair, then ran them down his face.

            So that was it; he wasn’t reliving the past, because it wasn’t really _his past_. It was another reality, another universe, where he had mastery over events that he’d lived, _really lived_ , in his lifetime.

            It was just a _farce_.

            Stomach bottoming out, Sam looked toward the hallway, toward the basement door. Realizing he hadn’t really _changed_ anything; not for himself. Jessica was really still dead, somewhere out there, and Sam couldn’t change it. He wasn’t _this Sam_ , _college_ Sam, he’d just been dropped into that kid’s body.

            And suddenly it felt—itchy, crawly, _wrong_.

            Sam grabbed the Colt off the table and Dean’s jacket off the hanger by the door and all but ran out the back door, down the steps, into the Salvage Yard. Careening between high stacks of crushed, ruined automobiles, until he found the beat-up, scraped Camero that Bobby had given him driving lessons in sometimes, when John and Dean were on hunts—in the other world. In Sam’s _real_ world. Hot-wiring it was a breeze; he gunned it for the road.

            Leaving—knowing that Jessica was still alive, in that panic room, waiting for him to come back—was one of the hardest things Sam had ever done. He checked the rearview mirror two dozen times; and kept reminding himself, over and over again, that staying with her wouldn’t _change_ anything. It wasn’t _his_ Jessica, she belonged to this other Sam. And sticking around, trying to make it work with her, would only be more painful in the long-run.

            Sam waited until he was out of Sioux Falls and heading back down Interstate-Sixty-Seven, toward Colorado, before he got his head in the game. Gave himself that long to let go of what he’d almost had, holding on by the tips of his fingers when he’d known all along that something wasn’t _right_.

            And then he pulled out his cell-phone, and speed-dialed his brother.

            Picked up after three rings. “Dude, I don’t know how you did it, but you nailed this one right on the head. Woman in White.”

            “That’s great, Dean.” Sam’s throat was froggy, his eyes burning.

            He could almost feel the shift in Dean’s focus, from smugly delighted to concerned. “Sammy? What’s going on? You okay?”

            Sam straggled in a long breath. “No, Dean. I’m not.”

            “Where are you?” Dean had that sound in his voice—that sound like he was about to drop everything, to make sure Sam was taken care of.

            “I need you to listen to me.” Sam said, his voice growing steadier. “This is going to sound—pretty crazy. Just bear with me, okay?”

            “Okay?” Dean said it like a question—worried.

            Sam took a deep breath. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not _your Sam_.”

            “ _My_ Sam?” Dean sounded like he was building up to a ribbing for that one.

            “Would you just listen to me?” Sam snapped. “I’m still Sam, all right? But I’m from a—different timeline, or, a universe, I guess. Six years in the future, you and I are working a case in a glass factory, and the shop-owner attacks us. When he and I look into this one mirror, I wake up—here. In the past. Except it’s not really the past, it’s more like an alternate reality. I can change anything I want to.”

            “Uh-huh.” Dean’s tone was bored, now. “Sam, you been drinking?”

            “Dean, this isn’t a joke!”

            “Yeah, obviously. I’m not laughing.”

            “I’m serious! I ended up, in this body, with all my memories from _my_ world.”

            “Dude, you’re insane.”

            Sam slanted his eyes. “Really? Then how do I know about Cassie? The girl you were in love with? You told her about the job.” He checked his rearview again, switching lanes. “Or Lisa. Gumby Girl?” He lowered his voice. “Or how mom used to tuck you in every night and tell you that angels were watching over you?”

            Dean stayed dead quiet for so long Sam thought maybe he’d hung up.

            Then he burst out, or almost _whined_ , “ _Alternate realities_? C’mon! That’s crazy even for us. Like,”

            “ _Dingo ate my baby crazy_?” They said in unison.

            That sweltering silence returned.

            “Brady still on your ass?” Dean said, finally.

            “I killed him.”

            “Killed him. You _killed a demon_?”

            “With the Colt. It’s a gun that _dad_ is going to tell us about in a few months.”

            “Wait, so you know where dad is?”

            Sam closed his eyes for a second, then focused back on the road. “No. He never told us. I just know he doesn’t want us to find him.” He checked his watch. “I’m on my way back to Palo Alto right now. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

            “All right, let me get this chick salted and burned, and I’ll meet up with you.”

            “Dean!” Sam said, before his brother could hang up. “You have to drive her into the house. It’s the only way to stop her.”

            He could sense his brother’s hesitation, and then Dean hung up without a word.

 

 

            Sam didn’t stop, didn’t really calm down until he was in his favorite coffee shop two blocks from Stanford at six in the morning the following day, Dean’s jacket around his shoulders to keep him warm, spinning his frappuccino between his hands and checking the clock on the wall every few seconds. Dean was already an hour late, and Sam was running through the possible scenarios for what had happened to him, and why, and how to reverse it.

            He was so on edge he jumped when the bell over the door jingled, and Dean walked in—muddy, grumpy-faced and looking like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Sam jumped to his feet and almost knocked the small table over flagging his brother down. Dean hunched his shoulders and walked to join Sam, sliding into the chair across from him. He stuck out his hand wordlessly and Sam passed him the leather jacket. Dean shrugged into it, his expression murderous.

            “Bitch almost tore me a third hole.” Dean tapped his fingertips over his heart. “You coulda warned me about that, Browning.”

            “I’m not seeing the future, Dean!” Sam protested, and Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’m not! I know what’s gonna happen because I’ve already lived through all of this.”

            “What, like Groundhog Day?”

            “ _Shut. Up_.”

            “ _All right_!” Dean growled. “All right, all right. So what do we do now?”

            Sam rubbed a hand wearily across his forehead. “Figure out how to get me back, I guess.” He paused, thinking it over, then grabbed a napkin out of the holder and pulled a pen out of his pocket, jotting down notes. He turned the napkin around toward Dean.

            Dean read it, frowning. “Okay, and this is supposed to mean—?”

            “Look.” Sam stood up, circled around behind Dean and leaned over his shoulder, tapping the handwritten scrawl “In the next couple weeks, we’re gonna be hunting a Wendigo back in Colorado. Then a ghost in a lake in Wisconsin. Then a demon on an airplane in Pennsylvania, before it hops states to Indiana. I already took the Colt back to Elkins, but if we play our cards right, we should be able to save a lot of people. After that, there’s a break in the cases for a few days, and that’s when we send me back.”

            Dean slanted a look up at him sideways, and Sam’s brow furrowed. He leaned back. “What?”

            “Nothin’.” Dean swept the napkin into his pocket and stood up. “Just, you. Y’know, ditching Jessica to come hunt with your big brother.” He grabbed the side of Sam’s neck and shook him. “It’s heartwarming, bro. Hold me.”

            “Knock it off.” Sam smacked Dean’s hand away. “Can we just get going?”

            “Sure thing.” Dean said, but he didn’t move. “Hey, Sam. Why _did_ you leave? She’s gonna be pissed.”

            Sam shrugged. “It’s…not my life, Dean? Y’know? So, whatever I do, I can’t have her. I gotta keep hunting.”

            “Can’t have her?”

            Sam swallowed, and looked away. “She dies. Where I come from. Brady kills her. Because of me.”

            Dean stayed quiet for a minute, then smacked Sam’s chest with the back of his hand. “Let’s hit the road.”

            They left the coffee shop together.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_April 16 h, 2012 _

_Lincoln Luxury Inn, Lincoln, Nebraska_

“This is crap.”

            Dean slammed the lore book shut and shoved it away, scrubbing his hands down his face and leaning his elbows on the table.

            “That’s what I’ve been saying for the last hour.” Soulless butted in.

            “Oh, shut up.”

            Being locked in the motel room while Bobby went for a food run—bad enough. Being trapped inside with Soulless Sam was a fresh Hell. The dude would _not shut his cakehole_. Trussed up, slouched in the gap between one of the beds and the wall, every time Dean so much as _scratched his nose_ , this guy had a commentary for it. An unhelpful, _annoying_ commentary. Not even the kind of fun that geeky Sam could be; this guy just had an opinion and he wanted it heard.

            And Dean was sick of listening.

            “This would all be a lot easier if you just _let me go_ ,” Soulless hinted. “I’d even leave Bobby alone.”

            “Like I’m gonna believe that.” Dean muttered into his hands. “So you’re just gonna run around town waiting for Sam’s soul to drop back inside you? Doesn’t sound like your MO, pal.”

            “No. You’re right, it’s not.” Soulless dragged himself straighter against the wall, shifting his bound hands on his knees. “But, Dean, the spell Balthazar told me just says I need the _blood of a father_. It doesn’t have to be Bobby.”

            Dean raised an eyebrow and sank back in his chair. “Unless you exsanguinated Dad and kept a jar of his juice around—”

            “The _shifter_ , Dean.” Soulless said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If he’s wearing our dad’s face, then he might count for the ritual.”

            Dean rocked his head from side to side. Valid point. “All right, say you do bleed the poor bastard dry. What if the ritual doesn’t work?”

            “Then we figure something else out. But it’s just a Shapeshifter, Dean. Who cares if it dies?”

            “And that’s where you’re wrong.” Dean hunched onto his feet. “See, that Shifter,” He paused and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “God, never thought I’d hear myself say this: he’s a friend of mine. Sorta. So I can’t just cut you loose on him.”

            Soulless burst out a humorless laugh. “You’re even more out of shape than I thought. _Befriending_ a monster? The Dean I knew—”

            “Yeah, yeah, save it, Scrappy.” Dean grabbed another beer from the mini-fridge. “Bottom line is, you’re not gonna waste Bobby or John. Know why?”

            Soulless just stared at him; Dean smirked, and took a pull off his beer.

            “’Cause I’m gonna get Sam’s soul back. You’re not gonna scar his vessel, you’re not gonna _kill_ , anybody. Understand?”

            Soulless sank back into the corner. “We’ll see.”

            A knock at the door interrupted their glaring match; Dean backed up and unlatched it, never taking his eyes off Soulless.

            “Stormin’ to beat the devil out there.” Bobby complained, dumping a sack of fast-food burgers on the table. “Find anything?”

            “Yeah, diddly and squat.” Dean flung himself moodily into his previously-abandoned chair. “You get struck by any, _lightning bolts of inspiration_ out there?”

            “No.” Bobby groused. “Did almost get struck by regular lightning, though.”

            “My heart bleeds.” Dean fished around in one of the paper sacks and pulled out a grease-dripping, mouthwatering bacon cheeseburger with the works. “So what now?”

            Bobby angled a look toward the corner where Soulless was sitting—and eyeing him way too closely. “You really wanna talk with—?” Bobby jerked his head at Sam’s empty meatsuit, and Dean rolled his eyes.

            “What am I supposed to do? Knock the guy unconscious?”

            “Touch me and I’ll bite your hand off.” Soulless quipped.

            “Well, he’s got a better sense of humor than Sammy, I’ll give him that.”

            “I’m serious.” Soulless said, deadpan.

            “I know you are, chuckles.” Dean took a huge bite of burger, eyeing Bobby’s uncomfortable expression. He frowned. “Aw, c’mon, Bobby, what’s he gonna do? The kid’s ankles are tied to his elbows and he’s got a noose around his neck.”

            “Never stopped him before.”

            “I’m right _here_.” Soulless butted in.

            “Shut up!” Bobby and Dean snapped at the same time, and Soulless subsided, looking as pissed off as an emotionless blood-pumping husk possibly could.

            “At this point, we don’t got much, Dean.” Bobby admitted, sitting down with his back to Soulless and pulling out a chef’s salad for himself. He slathered it with a copious amount of dressing that basically negated the whole _eating healthy_ deal, then lobbed the empty packet into the trashcan and shrugged. “There’s lore from here to _forever_ about monsters, but not a lotta them can take out a person’s _soul_.”

            “How many is ‘not a lot’?”

            “S’far as I can tell?” Bobby shook his head. “Zero. Most of ’em wanna keep souls _in_. Now, there are some stories about demons taking souls—not just bargaining for ’em, but literally ripping them out. Never been a proven case recorded, though.”

            “All right.” Dean paused, mulling it over. “What about faeries? Can they do crap like that?”

            “Even if it was in the lore? They’d have to be pretty powerful, Dean. That kinda power is hard to hide.”

“The sooner you both realize, this is all _pointless_ ,” Soulless said conversationally. “The sooner we can all get on with our lives.”

            Bobby met Dean’s eyes across the table with a look that suggested his patience was two seconds from snapping like a strained rubber band. And then all hell was gonna break loose.

            “Let’s load his ass fulla rock salt.” It was the closest Dean had ever heard Bobby Singer come to whining.

            “Don’t tempt me.” Dean growled, setting his burger down. “Gimmie five minutes with the guy, all right?”

            “Need the duct tape?”

            Dean smiled humorlessly, studying the mocha-swirled walls until Bobby, and his fancy salad, had taken a hike out into the pouring rain. Dean wasn’t too worried about that; Bobby had a van with him, and if he wanted company there was always the motel longue.

            Probably better company there than in here.

            Dean stood up, kicked his chair back, and crossed the room to tower over Soulless. The shell of his brother’s body looked up at him with hooded, unaffected eyes.

            “What, Dean?” He asked candidly. “You gonna give me a _serious_ beat-down again? Rearrange my face?” He rocked his head aside with disinterest. “It’s not gonna change anything.”

            Dean crouched, smoothly, and grabbed Soulless Sam’s chin, dragging his head back around. “Listen up, you heartless, ice-cold bag of dicks, ’cause I’m only gonna tell you this once.” He noticed his fingers were leaving angry red impressions on the skin—didn’t care. “You’re stuck with us. And the only reason you’re not dead yet is because I need Sam’s body for when he comes back. So either shape up, or I’m gonna gag you and I _will_ knock you unconscious while we figure this out. You hear me?”

            Soulless stared at him for a second; then a leering, spiteful smile split his face, and he shook Dean’s hand off, hard.

            “You’re not gonna solve anything.” He said coolly. “Know why? Because you’re _weak_ , Dean. You’re the weaker son. You were always right, I’m more like dad than you’ll _ever_ be. At least we can get a job done, and we’re not afraid to do whatever it takes. You, on the other hand, you’re just a walking, weeping sack of crap. A liability.”

            “You are _not_ John Winchester’s son.” Dean snapped. “He would be ashamed of you. He’d want to hunt you _down_.”

            “And then I’d kill him. The same way I’m gonna kill Bobby. And then that Shifter. And every other sick, scum-sucking freak you’re too _scared_ to face.”

            “You wanna talk freak,” Dean said. “Try looking in the mirror.”

            Soulless stretched his head up, with that friggin’ _insane_ look on his face that made Dean feel like he was looking at the scariest monster he’d ever faced. “Doesn’t matter. Once I lock the soul of this body, you’ll be stuck with me.”

            “It’s not gonna happen.”

            “We’ll see.”

            Dean shifted his jaw and rocked forward. “I’m telling you, you’re not locking Sam out. You know why?”

            Soulless narrowed his eyes. “Enlighten me.”

            “You’ve been gone for six months, pal. And that whole time? Sam’s been up here. Fightin’ the good fight. _Saving people_.” Dean has the satisfaction of seeing Soulless Sam’s eyes flip wide. “Yeah, he’s been over his head more times than I can count. But he’s still in there, slogging ass deep in monsters and demons and _God knows what else_ , every damned day.”

            “No.” Like saying _that_ was gonna make a damned bit of difference.

            “Oh, believe me, he was trading up.” Dean straightened, standing. “Here’s the deal: when the chips are down, _you’re_ the weak one. You wanna play like you’re the tough guy, ‘ _Nothing touches me_!’” He smirked, and shook his head. “You’re just too scared to face the memories from Hell. Take the soul back in. Sammy? He’s been there, done that. Kid’s a thousand times stronger than you.”

            Soulless glared pure hatred, or the closest thing to it that his Robo-mind could replicate, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands.”

            Dean tried to ignore the little shiver of uneasiness that rolled down his back. Just let it roll off like water. He shook his head. “Yeah, you give it your best shot. Takes more than a coward with a computer for a brain to make me lose sleep at night.”

            Dean grabbed his burger and took another huge, satisfied bite, ignoring the death glare Soulless was pinning on his back. Felt good to finally clue the guy in—let him know how long he’d been gone, and why. Not to mention how proud Dean realized he actually was; his brother had been through a pretty tough spot, getting his soul back, but now they were on the right track and things were looking up.

            As long as they could get him _back_.

            Dean flipped open one of the twenty or so books Bobby had brought with him, and started reading.

 

 

            Midnight came, and rolled past; Bobby showed back up, buried himself neck-deep in the lore with Dean, but he finally started nodding off around two in the morning and Dean told him to go to sleep. Not that he wasn’t tired himself; but Bobby was older and looked dead beat.

            Soulless just sat in that corner, nursing his hurt, nonexistent feelings. Good for him; Dean was feeling more malicious toward that quiet bastard every second.

            He sat back, finally, and checked his watch: three-thirty. He’d been doing this whole research thing almost non-stop for twenty-four hours straight. His brain felt like it was boiling down into jelly and _that soulless freak was still staring at him_.

            “Knock it off!” Dean twisted around awkwardly in the chair and lobbed the book in the general direction of the corner; Soulless didn’t even have to wiggle away to dodge, the book landed on the bed. _Dean’s bed_ , which was right next to where Soulless was tied up. Right. Like he was going to sleep and risk this guy strangling him or smothering him with a pillow.

            Dean had done a lot to keep things even-keeled with Soulless Sam when they’d been hunting together, before. Tried not to piss him off, just made it clear they weren’t exactly brothers and never would be, and that they were getting Sam’s soul back and that was that. No arguing, period.

            Seemed like Soulless had gotten another heavy dose of asshole while he was gone. This whole, wanting-Dean-dead thing wasn’t for some noble cause. Wasn’t even really for self-preservation. Was the closest Dean had ever seen Soulless come to wanting someone dead, just for pleasure.

            Honestly? It scared the _hell_ out of him.

            “It would make my life a whole lot easier if you ever actually _slept_.” Dean complained, sliding another book toward himself.

            Soulless cracked a humorless smile, and went back to staring.

            After another five minutes of reading—and trying to focus on it, which he failed at pretty miserably—Dean felt like spiders were crawling up the back of his neck. He banged the book shut, got up and shucked off his shirt. Twisting it into a coil, he stormed across the room and half-pushed, half-shoved Soulless out of the corner.

            “Bend over.” He ordered, and when Soulless didn’t jump to it, Dean planted a foot between his shoulder blades, forced the sucker down and tied the t-shirt over his eyes like a blindfold.

 

            “There.” Dean heaved him back up and crammed him into the corner.

            Soulless just sat there; Dean could still _feel_ the guy watching him, even through the dirty t-shirt.

            He dropped onto the foot of the bed and carded a hand back through his hair.

            The shrill intro cords of _Smoke on the Water_ emitted from Dean’s jacket, hanging over the back of the chair. Dean snapped his head up, glancing toward it, instantly wary. The only people who usually called him at two in the morning were Sam and Bobby; Bobby definitely wasn’t calling him, he was sawing logs on the other bed. And Sam was—not around, for lack of a more detailed description.

            “You gonna get that?” Soulless asked calmly.

            Grinding his molars together, Dean went for the phone, flipping it open and bringing it up to his ear.

            “This is Dean.”

            “Dean, it’s me.”

            “John?” Dean glanced at Soulless, figured he was too tied up to do much damage in five minutes, and then slipped out the front door, leaning against it to escape the rain dripping off the awning. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

            “I picked up a trace on Mohera.”

            Dean’s eyes widened. “You serious? That was fast?”

            “It’s been a month, Dean. _Fast_ is a week.” John said. “But yeah, I pinned the thing down. Or what it’s after, at the moment.”

            “Yeah? What’s that?”

            “Seems like it’s on the hunt. Slaughtering monsters left and right. And doing a damned good job of covering its tracks—I almost missed the signs.”

            “It’s still taking the monster souls?”

            “Yeah. And that’s got the monsters whipped into a frenzy. I’ve been approached by seven of them this week alone. Trying to recruit me.”

            Dean squinted at the dim fluorescent glow of a streetlamp across the parking lot; could barely see it through the tumbling rain. “You say yes?”

            “Give me a little credit, Dean.” John sounded frustrated, and tired. “One of the monsters was in a chatting mood. He said they’ve been campaigning to turn humans as fast as they can so the Mohera will go after them first; fresh souls feed it better, according to him.”

            “Huh.” Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Survival of the quickest.”

            “That’s one way of looking at it.” John agreed. “Anyway, Mohera’s taken the pressure off our minds because it has enough to feed on for now. It _wants_ us to turn people, Dean.”

            “Any idea how to stop this ugly monster machine yet?”

            “Still working on that.”

            “Great.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, work faster.”

            John was quiet for a minute. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

            Oh, crap. “What?” Dean scoffed. “Nothing’s _wrong_ , dad, c’mon—”

            “Dad, huh?” John sounded faintly amused, and Dean whacked himself on the back of the head. Double crap. “Wanna try that again, kiddo?”

            Dean blew out a harsh breath, slouching against the door. “It’s Sam. He, uh—something happened to him.”

            “Something—?”

            “His soul’s gone.”

            Dean heard an impact like John had hit something; typical. “I wanna know why, every time some shit goes down, it’s always _Sam_.”

            “Tell me about it. I’m goin’ gray already.”

            “You said his soul is gone?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “All right, catch me up. What happened?”

            Dean gave him the Cliff Notes version, explaining the missing people, the glass shop and Sam dropping in the middle of a flash of white light. When he finished, John was that introspective, thinking kinda quiet.

            “Where’s Sam’s body now?”

            “Alive and kicking.” Dean admitted. “Soulless. Again.”

            “Right. I’d heard about what happened to his body while his soul was in the pit.” John said, thoughtfully. “Sounds to me like you boys are dealing with a cursed mirror.”

            Dean cocked his head. “You serious?”

            “Well, they’re rare. Once-in-three-hundred-years, rare. But there’s lore: mirrors are the window to the soul?” When Dean grunted, John continued: “The stories say some mirrors can draw a soul _out_ of a body. Take it inside.”

            “So this mirror pulls out the soul of anyone who looks into it?”

“It’s possible. I’ll have to do some digging.”

“But if it’s true, Sam’s stuck in the mirror?” _Not in Hell_. Okay, he could deal with that. As long as his brother hadn’t gotten yanked back to the pit.

            “If we’re lucky. He might just be hovering around.”

            Dean squirmed his shoulders. “Gross. Now I feel like he’s watching me. I’ll never piss in peace again.”

            John chuckled, then clammed up, got serious. “How bad is it out there, Dean?”

            “Pretty freaking bad. Sam’s a hardass without his soul, I mean—scary dude. He wants Bobby and me dead.”

            “He tell you why?”

            “He needs Bobby’s head on a stake for some ritual. Scar his vessel, lock Sam’s soul out of his body.” Dean said. “Me, I’m just the lucky one: he hates my guts.”

            “Sounds like a nasty son of a bitch.” John said sympathetically. “You and Bobby need some backup?”

            Dean blinked. “You serious?”

            “What?”

            “You’re just gonna drop this lead on the Mohera to run your ass over here and help us? I mean, c’mon— _seriously_?”

            “How man times do you want to do this, Dean?” John demanded, obviously irritated. “ _Yes_. I’ll help you. Do you _want_ my help or not?”

            Dean couldn’t fight it; this weird, almost _relieved_ feeling started bubbling up in gut. Not anything near peaceful, but—the knots that had been tangling together on the back of his neck started easing off.

            “You’re doin’ what you need to be doing. If things get really bad out here, I’ll give you a call.” He said. “Otherwise…just get here when you can, all right?”

            He could almost hear the smile in John’s voice: “I will. You take care of yourself, Dean. If everything works out, I’ll see you in a couple days.”

            “Don’t rush it. If you got a trail, y’know, stick to it.”

            “I know how to do my job.” John reminded him, a little sharply. Dean smirked.

            “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

            “Hey,” John added, before Dean could hang up on him. “Your brother’s gonna be fine, Dune. We’re gonna make sure of that. You hear me?”

            Dean huffed out a sigh. “Yes, sir.”

            “I’ll be in touch.”

            Dean ended the call, flipped the phone shut and turned around, leaning his forehead on the door, prepping himself for more hours of grueling research. But at least he had a lead now: cursed mirror. Sam’s soul, stuck inside.

            Or watching him pee.

            Then he went back inside to deal with the books, and Soulless Sam.

           

 


	8. Chapter 8

_November 9 th, 2005_

_Coburn Free Library, Owego, New York_

“Is it just me, or does this place smell like feet?”

            Sam had forgotten how much a younger Dean, in any timeline, thought he was hilarious. It was actually painful to watch.

            He also still hated research.

            They’d been cramped up in the back corner of this library for two hours, and Sam had to admit, it _did_ smell like someone’s sweaty gym socks. Not to mention the oppressive heat, raging full blast from the enormous vents on the roof. Sam’s collar was sticking to the back of his neck.

            “Sammy, this place is jacked.” Dean complained, kicking the spinning chair in a slow circle. “And the coffee tastes like ass.”

            “Dean!” Sam snapped, his patience wearing thin, and Dean arched an eyebrow: score one for him, annoying his kid brother. “Look. Either shut up, or help me out here, all right?”

            Dean hung his head with a woebegone sigh, then scooted his chair over until it bumped Sam’s. “Okay, so, this mirror.”

            “Yeah, this mirror.” Sam frowned. “Where I come from, you and me, we were looking into a case where people kept vanishing. Traced it back to this glass shop, and when we were running the aspects of the place, I noticed where a lot of their imports came from.”

            “Wonderland?” Dean suggested with what he probably thought was an adorable, charming smile. Sam shot him a bitchfaced look. “ _What_? Isn’t this your little _Through The Looking Glass_ adventure, y’know, little trip down the bunny hole?”

            “Rabbit hole, Dean.” Sam muttered.

            Something in his tone seemed to alert Dean, because he sobered up. “All right, so you tracked the imports into this glass shop. From where?”

            “From here.” Sam admitted. “Owego. There’s a supplier in the town, kinda like an auction house for antique figurines and old mirrors.”

            “That where you were last night?”

            Sam’s mouth tugged to one side and he shrugged. Dean smirked.

            “Thought so.” He took a swig of lukewarm, ass-tasting coffee. “Whadda geek.”

            Sam ignored that. “I’ve been running through their inventory list, and there’s one thing that keeps cropping up.”

            “Yeah? What’s that?”

            “Well, there’s this mirror.”

            “And here we are, back at square one.”

            Sam kicked Dean under the table, earning himself a nine-point glare.

            “Its _official_ title is the Glass of Emily Dirsching. It’s extremely old—we’re talking, Victorian-era, probably belonged to a King of England back in the day. And, according to everything I could find on it, leaves a bad history wherever it goes.”

            “Bad like how?”

            “Bad like, people disappearing.” Sam said grimly. “Sometimes there’s a body count. Sometimes there’s not. They call it Satan’s Mirror, or the Looking Glass of Samhain. Different places, different titles.”

            “Wait, what the hell is Samhain?”

            “Uh—Halloween. All Soul’s Harvest.” Sam tapped his fingertips on the open lore book in front of him, and Dean shrugged. “Nevermind. Anyway, get this.” Sam leaned back over the book. “There’s _stories_ about this thing. Old, handwritten stories. Parents in old times used to tell their children not to look into the mirror or their, uh, ‘ _darkest secrets would be revealed_ ’.”

            “Hmm, sounds invasive.” Dean commented.

            “That’s not the worst part, either.” Sam said. “People don’t believe the stories are true. So, when the Looking Glass of Samhain shows up on some auctioneer’s chopping block, people are _scrambling_ to buy it.”

            “Spread the love.” Dean finished off the coffee cup and lobbed it into the trashcan. “Lemee guess, that’s what just happened with this thing?”

            “Bingo.” Sam sighed. “The thing just got carted off to Nebraska. But when we ran a background check on this place—”

            “You mean when we, _will_. Run it.” Dean said. “’Cause, y’know, future-boy…”

            “Whatever.” Sam cut him off. “There’s a break without any disappearances. A couple years. I’m guessing whoever bought the mirror is gonna put it in cold storage for a couple years until it gets bought by the Refraction Factory for cheap.”

            “So we gotta find it before that happens.” Dean shrugged.

            “Might not be that easy. That import warehouse? Couldn’t give me an address for where it’s being delivered. So we gotta find it from basically nothing.”

            “Then I guess we follow it.” Dean stood up and stretched. “You said this thing’s gonna end up in Nebraska, right?”

            “Yeah…”

            “Well, ‘ _go west, young man_ ’.” Dean quipped, smirking. Then his jaw shifted and his eyes grew distant. “Hey, if this mirror was the thing that brought you here—y’know, to an alternate reality or whatever,”

            “Yeah?” Sam slid the books onto the cart at the end of the table and headed for the door. Dean hurried to catch up with Sam’s long-legged stride.

            “So what if someone from _this_ world gets nabbed by the mirror or something? They end up in some alternate-alternate-reality? I mean, how deep’s the rabbit hole go?”

            Sam reflected on that for a second, then shook his head. “Dunno, Dean. Makes my brain hurt.”

            They emerged into bright, Upstate New York sunlight on a cold afternoon, wind whirling down their way from the Great Lakes. Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket Dean had nabbed him on their way out of the airport in Pennsylvania; things felt good. They’d saved a whole family from the ghost in the lake, stopped the Wendigo from murdering those hikers and saved an airplane full of people.

            A good run, and Dean was in a good mood. So was Sam.

            Except for the overbearing knowledge that this wasn’t even his world to begin with; and that Jessica was probably still looking for him, betrayed and upset and wondering where he was.

            Sam shoved that thought to the back of his mind as he climbed in shotgun. “Listen, uh, Dean.”

            “Yeah, Sammy?” Dean pulled out of the library parking lot, hitting the road that would eventually take them into Ohio.

            “So, uh, I was thinking about calling dad.”

            Dean blinked, cut him a look sideways. “Sam, you said it yourself, dad doesn’t _want_ us to find him. So what’s the point?”

            “He might actually pick up the phone if he knows what’s going _on_ , Dean.” Sam snapped. “Or at least call us back.”

            “Yeah, and when he doesn’t?”

            Sam glared at him. “I’m gonna call dad, Dean.”       

            “Fine.”

            “ _Fine_.” Sam fished out his phone and punched in John Winchester’s number from memory.

            He was less surprised, more disappointed when it rang and went to voicemail. Staring out the window at the trees whipping by, Sam let out a deep breath.

            “Dad?” He said. “Hey, it’s Sam. Uh, listen, I know Dean’s tried calling you. And, I know you haven’t been picking up.” Sam felt Dean watching him from his peripheral vision, and shut his brother out. “Something’s wrong, and, I need your help.” He paused, debating whether or not he could explain it, and make it make sense, in a voicemail. “Call me as soon as you get this.”

            He dropped the call and pressed the phone to his lips, closing his eyes.

            “Hey.” Dean reached over and clapped Sam on the knee. “We’ll figure it out, Sam. With or without the man.”

            “Yeah, I know.” Sam sighed.

            Dean pulled his hand back and tapped it on the steering wheel. “So, Marty McFly, you wanna tell me about the future?”

            That squeezed a reluctant smile out of Sam, and he glanced at Dean, rocking his head slightly. “What’s to tell?”

            “Sexcapades, for one.”

            Sam laughed, dryly. “You still don’t let me in on that, Dean.”

            “All right, well, what about little Sammy, huh?” Dean grinned. “You ever get that happy ending of yours? Wife, two-point-five-kids, pooch, white-picket fence?”

            Sam was silent, watching the tires gobbling the road; imagining the demon blood, and the lies, the betrayal, trusting Ruby, the soullessness and everything else that had torn them apart and knit them back together over the years.

            “There’s no happy, Dean.” Sam murmured. “Just endings.”

            “Okay,” Dean trailed the word off expectantly. “That’s descriptive.”

            Sam propped his temple on his fist. “No. After Stanford, I never went back. Got up to my neck in hunting.”

            “Like dad? Doin’ your solo thing?”

            “With _you_.”

            “Huh.” Dean chuckled.

            Sam slanted a glance his way. “What?”

            “Nothin’. I just can’t see it. Y’know, we make a hell of a team, Sam. But you, staying in the life? Helping _me_ hunt?”

            “Things change.” Sam stared out the window.

            “Hm.” Dean grunted. “Well, y’know, for what it’s worth—nice to have you watchin’ my back again, Sam.”

            “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

            “So, what else do we hunt, down the road?”

            Sam grinned. “All right, you’re not gonna believe this. Oktoberfest. There’s this guy going around biting people’s necks, bleeding them dry, and everyone’s calling him Count Dracula…”

 

 

            “I got it.”

            Sam tossed the inventory sheet on the corner table of the motel room, shaking his hair out of his eyes; it was snowing, the fat flakes melting almost as fast as they were falling, and Sam had had to walk over a mile to the local Fed-Ex compound because _hell_ if Dean was going to let Sam drive the _Impala_ in this kind of weather.

            Dean, who was flopped warm and cozy on the bed, while Sam peeled off his boots, contraband jacket and socks and all but dove under the heavy covers of the second bed, burrowing himself up to stop his chattering teeth.

            “You got _what_?” Dean asked, lazily flipping through channels on the television. “A burger? The Clap?”

            “Dean.”

            Dean hauled himself up onto one elbow and sighed with exasperation. “You find the mirror?”

            “They unloaded it last night.” Sam said, drying off his hair with a corner of the blanket. “A truck dropped if off six hours ago at a warehouse on Folsom Street. It’s about ten minutes from here.”

            “We got a plan?” Dean asked, sitting up the rest of the way and grabbing a half-eaten bag of Funyuns off the bedside table.

            “Well. We, uh,” Sam shifted his jaw, pressed his mouth into a thin line and squinted one eye shut, thinking. “Yeah, I got no idea.”

            Dean smirked; probably feeling proud of himself for having an idea that his brother-from-the-future hadn’t thought of yet. “I say we head out there, take a look at the place, try and figure out what were dealing with. How’s that sound?”

            “Don’t patronize me.” Sam muttered, tucking his chin to his chest.

            Dean stayed quiet, for a second, then swung up onto his feet and grabbed his jacket. “C’mon, let’s motor.”

            Sam blinked up at him. “What, _now_?”

            “Well, yeah. Ain’t gettin’ any younger, Sammy.”

            “Dude, we just got into town, like, eight hours ago! I haven’t _slept_.”

            “Eh, you slept in the car.” Dean popped Sam on the foot with his hand. “Get moving, _Samantha_.”

            “I hate you.” Sam griped, stuffing his feet back into his wet socks, boots, and slinging his jacket on.

            “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean grabbed the keys. “You wanna get back to your universe, right? So why are we gonna sit around with our thumbs up our asses?”

            The snow was coming down harder, the wind whipping it into diamond-bright flurries beneath streetlights. Fuzzy strains of a Zeppelin song edged from the speakers as Dean urged the Impala slowly down the ice-slick road, concentrating, but not seeming worried. Sam cupped his hands over the vents, trying to warm his cold fingers—and listening with a slight tip of a smile to the rattling of the Legos.

            “You know, Dean, if we pull this off,” Sam said, looking over at his brother, and Dean met his eyes for a brief second before returning his focus to the road. “If we do this right, we can save a lot of people.”

            Dean’s mouth quirked. “Sam, you sure about this?”

            “Sure about _what_?” Sam asked.

            “That you wanna go back.” Dean shrugged. “I mean, you got a gift here, man. You know how all this weird crap is gonna go down before it even _does_. Is goin’ back really the best idea?”

            Sam didn’t know how to answer that; how to tell someone, who looked and felt and _seemed_ , real, that he was fake, that this whole reality—everything he believed in, and fought for—was just some kind of illusion. 

            And more than that; Sam didn’t _want_ to say it. Didn’t want to think about that small, stubborn part of him that knew how much better things were in this world, in this reality, or alternate universe, or whatever Dean wanted to call it. He had Jessica, and John, Bobby— _everyone_. Everything he needed to still do the job, and be happy.

            And maybe, staying here wouldn’t be the end of the world. Would be just like—starting over in a new one. Fresh start. Before the Apocalypse. Before Hell. Before Cold Oak. Before _everything_ , everything that had gone wrong. With an echo of Dean who believed in him, without the scars of mistrust between them.

            Sam looked out the window, and didn’t answer.

            Snowdrifts were piling against the flanks of the warehouses when they pulled up to the complex; there were ten of them, corner-to-corner across a sprawl a mile wide. Sam gave the barb-studded chain-link fence one cursory glance; it wouldn’t be a problem. No night crew, either. Looked like they’d all been sent home. So the only real obstacle they were facing was the security alarm.

            “Dean—”

            “Yup. I’ll take care of it.”

            They parked around the corner, behind an old beater pick-up, rusted out and listing to one side, and walked half a block back to the complex. Dean wadded his leather jacket up in his fists and scaled the fence scrambling, using the jacket to protect his hands from the razor-barbed wire. He hurled it back over the fence once he was safe on the other side, and in a few long-limbed movements Sam joined him. It surprised him how much more fluid his body felt now, younger and stronger. He hadn’t realized how much time had aged and deteriorated him, in subtle ways.

            “Stop flexing, it’s creeping me out.” Dean snapped, and Sam hid his smile.

            They crossed the complex, feet muffled by the newly-fallen snow. It soaked through Sam’s boots, and he grimaced, picking his feet up higher and shaking the snowmelt off. It made him nervous, the way they were leaving tracks; but they didn’t exactly have an arsenal of snowshoes.

            They reached the first building, tucking into its shadows, and Dean peered around the corner for a second. “All right, coast’s clear. Which building is this thing in?”

            “Uh—third one.”

            “All right.” Dean shrugged his jacket back on. “Recon time.”

            He stepped around the corner—

            And flew reeling back, grabbing his nose with both hands, blood gushing between his fingers.

            “Dean!” Sam grabbed his brother’s shoulders to keep him from slipping, muscles knotting in preparation to fight off whatever had attacked Dean.

            “What are you two trying to do? Get yourselves _shot_?”

            Sam dropped his hands from Dean’s back, staring at the stocky, auburn-haired woman glaring at them with the butt of her shotgun still aimed for Dean’s head.

            “Don’t hit me again!” Dean held up one hand, voice congested with blood. He tilted his head quickly to one side. “Please?”

            “She’s not gonna hurt us, Dean.” Sam said, a grin splitting his face. He stepped forward, embracing the woman tightly, pinning the gun between their bodies. “It’s great to see you, Ellen.”

            The shotgun rammed against his ribcage, pushing him a few steps out. “Do I know you, kid?”

            Sam stared at her, reality shifting back in his head. Right. Ellen hadn’t met them yet, didn’t know who they were.

            “We’re, uh, we’re John Winchester’s sons.” Sam gestured from himself to Dean. “Hunters, like you.”

            “Sam!” Dean snarled.

            Ellen swept a glance between the two of them, then lowered the shotgun to her side. “John’s boys, huh?” She lifted her chin. “How’d you know about me?”

            “My dad told me about you.” Sam said. “About how he hunted with Bill.” He hesitated, wondering how much was too much to say. “Said he was sorry about everything that happened.”

            “Huh.” Ellen licked the inside of her bottom lip, looking thoughtful. “Sam and Dean Winchester. Damn, I never thought I’d have the pleasure of meetin’ John’s boys. He was awful private about the two of you.” She rested the shotgun in the crook of her elbow. “What brings you out here?”

            “We’re looking for something.” Sam admitted. “Got shipped here on a truck earlier today. It’s the, uh—”

            “Satan’s Mirror?” Ellen finished, and Sam cocked his head.

            “Yeah, how’d you—?”

            “Sounds like we’re hunting the same thing.” Ellen glanced over her shoulder. “Not gonna have any luck tonight. I already checked the alarm. Easy deal, but there’s a motion sensor that’s gonna take a special weapon to deactivate.” She motioned with her head. “Why don’t you boys c’mon back to my place? I’ll give you somethin’ for your face, Dean, and we can do some friendly catching up. Between hunters.”

            Her tone suggested to Sam that she didn’t exactly trust them. But she knew John, and she’d heard about Sam and Dean. That was more than enough for Sam.

            Ellen led the way back toward the fence, and Dean fell into step with Sam behind her. “You know that lady?”

            “She’s kinda like family.” Sam said quietly.

            “Hell of a family.” Dean poked his nose tenderly, “Ow,” and glared at Ellen’s back. “Got any idea what her special weapon is?”

            “Yeah, I do.” Sam grinned. “Ash.”

 

 

            “Trip wire?” Ash said lazily. “Piece of cake.”

            They were sitting at the bar counter in the warm, friendly Roadhouse, Buffalo Springfield on the jukebox, Sam and Dean and Ash in a row with Ash’s computer set up in front of them. Dean was eyeing the thing with some respect and interest, and Sam was thinking Ash had looked about the same in Heaven as he did on earth.

            “So you think it’s a cursed mirror we’re dealing with?” Sam asked, turning his attention back to Ellen. She nodded, filling a pilsner with frothy amber beer and sliding it across the counter to Dean. He caught it one handed, held it up in a toast and then lowered the ice pack from his face long enough to take a drink.

            “I do.” Ellen leaned her elbows on the counter, flopping the bar-rag from off her shoulder and drying her hands. “Satan’s Mirror, Looking Glass of Samhain? There’s not a lot of lore about cursed objects like this, but Ash and Jo have been sniffing around this case for a while and they dug up a way to fix it.”

            “Jo?” Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Who’s Jo?”

            The Roadhouse door swung open. “Mom, we’re gonna have a foot of this crap by—who are they?”

            “ _That’s_ Jo.” Sam said, and Dean twisted around on his stool to watch Jo shed her thick winter coat and kick off her boots into the corner.

            “This is Sam and Dean Winchester. John’s boys.” Ellen explained.

            “Uncle John’s here?”

            “ _Uncle_ John?” Dean echoed skeptically.

            “No, just these two.” Ellen pulled a bag of pretzels from under the counter and slid them toward Jo. “Get some food in you, I’ll fix some hot chocolate.”

            “Thanks, mom.” Jo slid into the chair beside Ash and leaned over his arm to look at the computer, giving the brothers an amplified view of her chest.

            “Dude.” Dean elbowed Sam hard. “Do I get any of that?”

            Sam’s mind traced across memories of Hellhounds on an abandoned street, Jo’s clammy hands holding her entrails inside, and the thing he’d tried to ignore the most: the agony in Dean’s face as he’d told her goodbye.

            “Not exactly.”

            “Huh.” Dean, looking faintly surprised, took another drink of beer.

            Ellen came back with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, setting it down in front of Jo and kissing the top of her head before turning back to Sam. “Sorry, where were we?”

            “You said you knew how to fix the case?”

            “Yeah.” Ellen sighed. “Well, it won’t be easy. See, the mirror pulls in the soul of anyone who looks at it. Not sure what happens when they get pulled, but—”

            “We know.” Dean butted in. “Sam’s—”

            “It got me.” Sam said. “This isn’t—exactly my life.”

            “What do you mean?” Jo asked, watching Sam closely.

            Sam licked his lips with a sheepish smile. “Well, this is gonna sound nine kinds of crazy, but…”

            “He’s from another reality.” Dean said.

            “Uh—just…tell them, Dean. Thanks.” Sam said haltingly.

            Ellen blinked. “Run that by me again?”

            “Look, where I come from, it’s twenty-twelve.” Sam explained. “And, Dean and I—the other Dean—we were working a case, looking into disappearances in a store in Lincoln. Nebraska. I looked at the mirror, Satan’s Mirror, and next thing I know, I’m waking up next to my girlfriend. At Stanford.”

            “You sure you’re in an _alternate reality_?” Ellen asked, doubtfully.

            “I’m sure.” Sam kept his eyes down. “Jessica’s been dead for six years.”

            “Mom.” Jo said. “That fits with the lore.”

            Ellen nodded. “It does.”

            “What’s the lore?” Sam and Dean asked in unison; then shot glares at each other.

            “The stories say that the souls get ‘ _taken back_ ’.” Ellen quoted. “And whatever comes after that, they’re trapped in a mirror image of their lives. Until the mirror’s broken on both sides.”

            “So there’re only two realities?” Dean sounded a little disappointed.

            “Sounds like it.”

            “Then I just gotta talk to Dean.” Sam said. “I mean—the other Dean. Get him to break the mirror, while we break the one in the warehouse.” He paused, meeting Ellen’s eyes. “What happens then?”

            “Stories say,” Ash didn’t take his gaze off the computer screen. “All those trapped souls come pouring out.”

            “Including mine.” Sam sat back on the stool. “Great. But, uh…how do I get in touch with Dean?”

            “Mirror’s a mirror, bruh.” Ash drawled. “All you gotta do is find a mirror, should be able to reach the,” He waved spirit fingers toward Sam. “ _Other side_.”

            “Cut it out.” Jo smacked his arm, then stood up. “Hey, Winchester. You got a hand for blackjack?”

            Dean smirked, shoving his stool back. “Guess we’re gonna find out.”

            “Can’t work with all this noise.” Ash grumbled, grabbing his laptop and disappearing into the back room. Sam smiled apologetically at Ellen, swiveling around to face the counter again. Ellen started wiping out glasses and setting them under the bar, glancing at Sam’s face. After a few minutes, she poured Sam a huge frothing glass of beer and set it down by his hands.

            “You look like you’ve got something on your mind, sweetie.”

            Sam rubbed his knuckles over the pilsner, avoiding her gaze. “Y’think I have to go back?”

            “What, to your time?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, Sam, that’s where you belong. This ain’t your world, you’re not supposed to _be_ here.”

            “But I can save people, Ellen.” Sam insisted. “A lot more people than I did before. If I leave, they still die. How’s that okay?”

            “No one’s saying it’s fair, don’t get me wrong. But life ain’t fair, and that’s just the cold hard truth. It’s what we’ve gotta live with.”

            Sam stared down into his beer, then took a long drink and banged it back down on the counter. “Where I come from—the things I’ve seen? That I’ve _done_?” He shook his head. “I can’t scrub it out of my head, Ellen. It’s never gonna get better. But here—for the first time in months, _in months_ , I’m not dreaming about Hell.”

            “Hell?” Ellen echoed, sharply.

            Sam rubbed his forehead. “A lot of stuff happened. And I got—my head—”

            “You got hurt?”

            Sam nodded. “Pretty badly.”

            “How badly is badly?”

            “Bad enough to have seizures. It almost put me out of hunting. Still could, I guess.”

            “You said ‘almost’.” Ellen said, fishing a little bit.

Sam looked to his left, where Dean and Jo were sharing a table by the jukebox, playing a mean game of blackjack. Dean, looking young, and oblivious again, and Jo was just _alive_. Neither of them had any idea what fresh hell was waiting for them a few years down the road.

Sam dropped his eyes.

“Yeah. Almost.” He stood up. “Can I borrow your truck?”

“What for?”

“Need to head back to the motel. I think I know how to get in touch with Dean.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

_April 17 h, 2012 _

_Lincoln Luxury Inn, Lincoln, Nebraska_

“Sixty-nine bottles of beer on the wall, sixty-nine bottles of _beer_ —”

            “I am going to _cut_ —your _head off_.”

            Three pizzas, twenty-four hours and another tower of lore books later, they weren’t any closer to finding a way to retrieve Sam’s soul. And with every passing hour, Soulless was getting crankier—or more desperate, Dean wasn’t exactly sure how the upstairs worked on a guy like him. Either way, meant more of a chance of him doing something drastic to lock Sam’s soul out. Which meant serenading him with repetitive drinking songs for an hour straight—not the best idea.

            But Dean was bored.

            “Take one down, pass it around—”

            “ _Dean_!” Bobby snapped, looking up from the massive, thick volume he’d been thumbing through for the last hour. “Cool it, wouldja?”

            Dean stared at the ceiling. “Find anything?”

            “Nada. If there even _is_ any lore on how to bust this thing, it’s buried deep. _Oceans_ deep. Not gonna be exactly _easy_ to find.”

            “Well, keep diggin’.” Dean got to his feet and stretched. “You gonna be all right with Chuckles over here for a couple minutes?”

            “Where you goin’?”

            “Shower.” Dean replied.

            “Waste’a water. All you gotta do is step outside.” Bobby went back to his book and Dean glanced out the window; it was still sheeting down rain. The TV, turned on quiet in the background, had been flashing flood warnings for the last six hours. And it didn’t look like it was gonna let up anytime soon.

            Dean grabbed the last piece of cheese pizza, kicking Soulless Sam’s sprawled-out leg on his way to the bathroom. “Comfy down there?”

            Soulless glared at him, unnervingly silent.

            Den chuckled. “Thought so.”

            He had his hand on the door when Soulless said, softly, “It doesn’t have to be like this, Dean. Come on. Let me go.”

            Dean stopped, and looked over his shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.”

            “Dean, my ass is numb. I can’t feel my hands. Look, I know you want your little brother back, I get it. But he’s gonna be pissed if he drops back into a meatsuit with its _hands_ rotting off from bloodloss.”

            “Man’s got a point, Dean.” Bobby pitched in.

            “Dude, he wants _your_ head on a plate.”

            Bobby gave a classic look of contempt. “Think I can watch the son of a bitch for five minutes while you’re primping, princess.”

            Dean glanced at Soulless, and that was a mistake, ’cause _dammit_ when had he gotten that good at imitating Sam’s puppy-dog-eyes?

            “I’m gonna regret this,” Dean muttered, but he crouched beside Soulless, flipped out his butterfly knife and sawed the ropes off in few deft maneuvers. Soulless unfolded his limbs like he’d been crammed into a box, rubbing his abraded wrists and leaning his head back against the wall.

            “Thank you.” He said.

            And sounded so damned _sincere_.

            “Your ass doesn’t move outta this corner, y’hear me?” Dean pointed from Soulless Sam, to Bobby. “You watch him, Bobby. Holler if you need me.”

            Dean shut and locked the door behind himself, cranked on the shower. Then just sat on the edge of the tub with his head cradled in his hands. He’d been singing songs, telling jokes and driving Bobby and Soulless up the wall for two days now. Just to hide the fact that he was flipping his shit on the inside. He was worried about Sam; where his brother was, what the hell he was going through.

            And they weren’t any closer to finding an answer than before John had dropped them that little breadcrumb.

            So Dean decided he had one more option: break radio silence.

            “Dear Castiel,” He muttered, his voice lost under the spit-spit-spray of the congested showerhead. “Normally, I would have some great, awesome prayer asking you to get your ass down here. But today, I am all out of…” He trailed off, then chuckled raggedly. “Sam’s in trouble. And I get it, you’ve got some angel-rodeo going on upstairs. Thing is, though, if you don’t help us out, Sam might be gone. Zapped out. _Permanently_.” _Saying_ it just made his inside curl up like freaking pretzels. “So if you got the time, and you could drop by and—”

            “What happened to Sam?”    

            Dean picked his head up, looking at Castiel, hunched into the corner with an intense expression in his blue eyes.

            “You showed.” Dean couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

            Castiel’s shoulders loosened up. He straightened. “Dean. What happened to your brother this time?”

            “Got his soul sucked into a mirror.” Dean explained. “Guess what that means?”

            Castiel turned his head slightly toward the door. “The remnant has returned.”

            “Give the big bad angel a cookie.”

            “No, thank you, I’m not fond of wafers. Dean, I don’t know where Sam’s soul is.” Castiel said bleakly. “Nor do I know how to retrieve it.”

            “Step ahead of ya, there.” Dean stood up. “Talked to my—uh, to John. Shapeshifter.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt. “He says Sam’s soul might be stuck in the mirror. Or floating around.”

            “No, it isn’t floating. I would have sensed it.” Castiel shifted suddenly, grinding the heel of his hand against his forehead and squinting his eyes shut.

            “Cass? You okay?”

            “Ciel.” Castiel grated. “She’s…persistent. And impatient.” Castiel shook his head, hard, and focused on Dean. “I’m sorry I can’t do more to help your brother. I’m in the middle of skirmish with Raphael’s most powerful supporters. If I manage to break their will, I will return as soon as I can.”

            He up and disappeared. Typical.

            Dean stripped off, showered down, and redressed with lightning speed. Still couldn’t shake the idea of Sam’s soul hovering around somewhere, and that was just uncomfortable. Toweling off his hair, Dean shoved his hand against the mirror and dragged it down, clearing a path through the steam; then left it there, and gave his reflection a once-over.

The sleepless night were starting to erupt in dark shadows under his eyes. Maybe after they trussed Soulless up again, he could catch a few hours of shut-eye.

            Dean bowed his head, blotting the back of his neck with the towel.

            “Dean?”

            He squeezed his eyes shut; could hear Soulless Sam’s voice, and dammit, didn’t want to face him right now. Bobby, either. Didn’t even want to come out of the bathroom until he had a solid lead to go on. And Castiel hadn’t given him jack squat for a springboard.

            “Dean—hey!”

            “I’ll be out in a second!” Dean growled.

            “No, wait, don’t leave—please.”

            Dean’s head quirked to one side. Okay. That voice definitely wasn’t coming from behind him—sounded way too eager to be Soulless, anyway.

            Dean looked around the room. “Sam?”

            “Finally. I’ve been yelling for you for half an hour, man.”

            “Oh, shit, dude, you really are a ball of light floating around here somewhere.” Dean moaned. “Tell me you weren’t watching me shower, ’cause that’s just creepy.”

            “Dean, I can’t _see_ you. I can hear you, though.”

            “Well, where _are_ you, genius?”

            “Mirror. Other side.”

            Dean snapped eyes to his reflection. “What?”

            “Yeah. I’m at the Luxury Motel.”

            “Ya lost me.”

            “I’m in two-thousand-five again, Dean.”

            Dean watched his own eyes widen in the mirror. “Son of a bitch. _How_?”

            “Long story. Basically, I looked at that mirror, I woke up in bed with Jessica. The night you came to get me from Stanford, to help you find dad. We’ve been hunting, and…it’s like some alternate timeline, Dean. A parallel reality.”

            “Like that time I got the dream-drug from a djinn?”

            “Yes!” Sam sounded relieved. “Exactly. Like that.”

            “Great. So, how do we get you back into your body?”

            “My body?”

            “Yeah, it’s marching around topside, Sam. Soulless-You is back, and the guy’s got an extra dose of asshat.”

            “Holy crap.” Sam said, softly. “Wait. Why me?”

            “Why you, what?”

            “Why’s _my_ body up and around? None of the other people who went missing ever woke back up. They just…died.”

            “I dunno, Sam. Could be your vessel’s already set up for success, or whatever, ’cause it’s done this before.” Dean shrugged, even though Sam couldn’t see it. “Honestly? I don’t really care. _How are we gonna get you back?_ ”

            “Here’s the thing. Uh, Ash says we gotta break the mirrors in both worlds at the same time. I guess that releases the souls that are trapped inside, so we can get back.”

            “ _Ash_ says? You’re working with _Ash_?”

            “Dean.”

            “All right, all right. So, how’s this gonna go down?”

            “Well, the mirror’s in a warehouse in this timeline. Ellen was hunting it, so she’s gonna help us out. Warehouse closes at midnight, so—think you can make it to the Refraction Factory by then?”

            “Piece’a cake.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Sam, what happens if we break the mirror before you guys get things squared away?”

            “According to Ash, it’s like—slamming a door, Dean. None of the souls can get out. So, I’ll be trapped here.” He paused. “Forever.”

            “Then you better put that overgrown geek head of yours to work, Sam. I want an _exact_ timeline, here.”

            “Stroke of midnight. On the dot.”

            “Your watch still synched up with mine?”

            “Gimmie the time.”

            “Quarter ’til eleven.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, I think we’re good.”

            “You sure? We only have one shot at this, Sammy, so you better not drop the ball or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

            Crap, his stupid voice picked _that second_ to break a little bit.

            Sam stayed quiet for longer than Dean would’ve liked. “Sammy?”

            “Dean, it’s okay. We’re gonna do this.” Sam’s voice sounded…different. Convicted. “We’re gonna get it right, and I’ll be home before y’know it.”

            “You better be, bitch.” Dean braced his hands on the sink, dropping his head again, and cleared his throat. “Listen, Sam, if, uh, if this deal goes south, I just want you to know that—”

            Something smashed out in the main room of the motel. Dean spun around, adrenaline striking in his wrists.

            “Dean? What is it?” Sam asked.

            “Son of a bitch.” Dean kicked the bathroom door open, busting the lock like glass.

            Soulless was standing over Bobby’s inert, slumped form; Bobby, who was bleeding from his head, and Soulless had his head dragged back by his hair, Ruby’s demon-killing knife at Bobby’s throat.

            Dean drew on Soulless, lightning-fast. “Drop him!”

            Soulless stared at him, deer-caught-in-the-headlights, animal-under-the-gun expression. Cornered, crunching the numbers, figuring out if it was worth trying to take Bobby out now.

            Read the dangerous, I-Am- _Done_ look in Dean’s eyes, and bolted, the door banging open and then shut behind him.

            Swearing, Dean tucked his firearm back into his waistband and dropped beside Bobby, pulling him up by his shoulder, tucking the other arm under Bobby’s body. Checked his head; lotta blood.

            “Bobby—Bobby! Hey!” Dean all but yelled, pressing his hand against the warm rush of blood coming from his surrogate father’s forehead. “Bobby, talk to me, dammit!”

            It was another minute or two before Bobby came around; moving his head dizzy-slow, eyes rolling, finally picking up his head. “Dean…”

            “Right here, Bobby. Take it easy, man, you got a Grand Canyon on your forehead.” Dean tugged gently at the edges of the gash, gritting his teeth sympathetically. “Yep, this mother’s gonna need stitches.”

            “Dean!” Bobby’s voice, snappier, his hand grabbing Dean’s wrist. Their eyes met. “He _heard_ you.”

            “Heard me _what_?”

            “What you said about the _mirror_.”

            It took two seconds to fall into place.

            Break the mirrors together, free the souls. Break them separately—

            “No, no-no-no-no-NO!” Dean stared at Bobby, desperately, wondering if he should leave him, if Bobby could make it without him for a few minutes, what the _hell else_ could he do…

            “Go.” Bobby pushed himself up out of Dean’s grip, holding his hand awkwardly, gingerly against his head wound. “Get moving, or we’re gonna lose Sam!”

            “On my way.” Dean swiped the keys and ran out into the rain, no jacket, just a ratty gray v-neck and jeans, sweeping the parking lot with a glance. Soulless was long gone, but he hadn’t jacked the Impala. Baby was still there, rain rolling off her sleek hide.

            Dean crammed in behind the wheel and took off, rolling out in a spray of dirty rainwater, heading down a mostly-deserted road. People were paying attention to the flood warnings, that was for sure, and with good reason. The stream running in the roadside ditch was about six feet deep and spilling over onto the pavement.

            Dean gripped the wheel tighter, and floored it.

            Less than a minute later, he was raring up on red taillights bulging out of the dark-as-a-pit night. Could only be one person.

            The Impala munched up the space between the two cars, no problem; pulled up beside him, and Dean could see Soulless was white-knuckling it, too, barely taking his eyes off the road long enough to see it was Dean risking his neck to do this chicken race.

            Soulless made a movement that was either a scramble to correct as the car hydroplaned, or he was flipping Dean the bird. Didn’t matter either way.

            Soulless pulled ahead, and that was what Dean had been waiting for.

            He jerked the wheel hard right, slamming the Impala’s nose into the back end of that beater Buick Soulless was riding. It fishtailed dangerously, managed to correct; so Dean punched nose-to-broadside again, and that was it.

            The Buick spun out like a ballerina on skates, doing donuts on the slick pavement so tight and so fast Dean had to pump the brakes to stop the Impala from tangling up with the Buick’s fender. Baby slid to a sideways stop and Dean watched the Buick waggle across the road.

            And slid backwards into the stream.

            Okay, no big deal. Sam could swim; Soulless probably could, too.

            Except he didn’t come out; and that water was moving fast, trying to suck the car loose and _move it_. And the water was almost up above the driver’s side door.

            Dean punched his own door open and moved, stripping his shirt off and throwing it on the Impala’s hood, wading up to his chin in icy, muddy water to get to the car. Swiping his arm down the window, he could see inside: Soulless sorta hanging out of his seatbelt, crushed against the steering wheel. Head tucked down. Not moving.

            Dean put his whole weight behind it, trying to wrench the door open, but the current was pinning it shut. Wadding his tongue in between his teeth, Dean fisted his right hand, packed it into the curve of his left palm and bashed his elbow against the window, shattering it in.

            Soulless didn’t even flinch; blood was streaming from the corner of his mouth. And from his head, same place he’d hit Bobby.

            Dean would worry about just desserts later.

            He crammed his torso into the car, reaching around Soulless—blood dripping into Dean’s ruffled hair—and unbuckling his seatbelt. He grabbed Soulless by his collar and hauled his deadweight out through the broken window, trying to avoid the narrow spikes of glass still stuck in the frame. Took him a minute of awkward maneuvering and trying to feel for the muddy bottom of the ditch with his numb feet, but he finally got the traction to slide Soulless out.

            Still totally floppy. Dean pulled the guy’s arm around his shoulders and started slogging it back for the road, not liking his odds of making it out of the ditch, and the road was a foot-deep under water already.

            Ended up clawing his way uphill with one arm around Soulless, keeping the current from pulling him away. By the time he made it up mid-calf-deep in water on the road, and looked back, Dean could see the water unsticking the Buick and towing it away.

            Panting, totally out-of-breath and freezing, Dean dumped Soulless against the hood of the Impala and stripped his shirt open, feeling for breaks in his bones. Couldn’t find anything on a sweep-through, other than that huge cut on his head and a slit on the inside of his cheek. Dean was going back over his sternum again when Soulless grabbed his wrist in an iron grip.

            Dean looked up, met those dazed, empty hazel eyes. And realized the fight was out of them both.

            “Man, you’re wrecked. You split your head open and you’re gonna have enough bruises to wear ’em for a shirt. You’re not gonna be able to do anything. Sit tight.”

            Soulless stared at him for a second longer, than sank back against the hood; grumbling, Dean shoved his t-shirt against the cut on Soulless Sam’s head, and bundled him into the backseat. Went around to the trunk, grabbed a pair of handcuffs and cuffed him behind his back.

            “Here.” Dean wadded the shirt against the back of the front seat and leaned Soulless forward so the headrest kept pressure on his wound. “Don’t move.”

            “You’re an idiot.” Soulless muttered thickly, spitting blood onto Dean’s hand. “You could’ve drowned yourself.”

            “Yeah, well, that’s what people with an actual _soul_ , and _human emotions_ , do.” Shivering, feeling like his skin was puckering in too close to his bones, Dean climbed back in behind the wheel. “You can fight me on that later—or not.”

            He turned the car back toward downtown Lincoln, and cranked the heat on full blast as they left the flooded road behind.

 


	10. Chapter 10

_November 11 h, 2005_

_Harvelle Roadhouse, Lincoln, Nebraska_

“How’re we doin’, Ash?”

            Sam walked in, shrugging off his jacket, just in time to hear Ellen’s question and see her pop her hand lightly on the top of Ash’s head. He startled, looked up from the laptop screen and then spun his bar stool around to look at her.

            “Hacked the alarm. Got it rigged and ready to blow.” He sniffed. “Can give you five minutes before the tripwire alarm goes back online. Whenever I get the okay-go.”

            “Well, that’s cuttin’ it close.” Dean was leaning his elbows back on the counter, Jo beside him. He lifted his beer in salute when Sam cleared his throat. “Hey, Sammy! Find what you were lookin’ for?”

            “I got in touch with the—uh, the other side.” Sam said awkwardly, joining them by the bar counter. “I think something’s wrong. Dean left in a hurry.”

            “But you gave him—me— _us_ ,” Dean scrunched up his face. “The details, right?”

            “Yeah. We’re set to go. Midnight.”

            “Hm. Better hope I’ll pull it outta my ass.”

            “You’ll both do fine.” Ellen said confidently.

            “You’re gonna help us, right?” Sam asked; he wasn’t above sinking into the pleading eyes to get his way. And with a wry smile, Ellen nodded.

            “’Course I am. Gotta see this case all the way through.”

            “Great, ’cause we’re gonna need all hands on deck. Jo, that means you, too.” Sam said, and Jo’s eyes lit up with a passion that reminded Sam why they’d gotten along with her so well. Sam imagined his mom had been a lot like that, too, in her hunting days.

            Ellen had other ideas. “Uh-uh, absolutely _not_ , Joanna Beth!”

            “ _Mom_ —!”

            “Ellen.” Sam said with what he hoped was a winning smile. “Trust me. Jo’s great at what she does. She’s got the training, the background—she can _do_ this.”

            Ellen studied him, close, trying to pick him apart. “She hunt with you boys in the other timeline?”

            Sam nodded. “Saved all our lives.”

            Ellen worked her jaw, looking away; then she snapped a glare onto Jo that was so intense, Jo straightened up at attention. “You stay behind me the whole time, Joanna Beth. You hear me? I want you _right beside me_.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Jo said respectfully. When Ellen turned around to grab her shotgun out from under the bar-counter, Jo beamed at Sam. He tugged on a reluctant smile; hating that he’d had to leave out the part where Jo had _died_ saving their lives. And Ellen had died with her.

            “All right.” Ellen tossed Jo a sawed-off on her way back around the counter, and Jo caught it one-handed, looking smug. Dean hid his smirk in the last few swallows of his beer. “Ash, keep the Roadhouse closed and your phone on you. When we give you the call, you trip that alarm.”

            “Comprende, my captain.” Ash sounded profoundly bored; then again, Ash _always_ sounded profoundly bored. The whole universe seemed to bore the guy. Sam wondered what would happen if Ash ever felt enthusiasm for anything; whole galaxies would spontaneously combust.

            His brain was spinning too fast; Sam tried to slow it down.

            “Jo and I will take the truck. You boys, stay on our asses.” Ellen instructed.

            The snow was still falling, but it had slacked off some; the road outside the Roadhouse was clear. Sam could feel Dean shooting him sideways glances while they filled a duffle with weapons—just in case—tossed the duffle into the backseat, slid into the front seat and followed the rustic truck out onto open pavement.

            Sam figured one of them would have to break the silence; and Dean had that Shut-Up-Like-A-Steel-Trap look. Whatever he wanted to ask, or say, he wasn’t going to just come out with it easy.

            Sam sucked in a breath and looked down at his lap. “So, Dean, uh.”

            “Yeah?” Dean tapped his thumbs lightly on the steering wheel, casual eyes on the road ahead of them the picture of relaxed. If Sam hadn’t known him so well, he wouldn’t have noticed how tense the back of Dean’s neck was, the way his fingers curled too-tight around the steering wheel.

            “If this thing goes the way I’m praying it does,” Sam didn’t let himself look up; didn’t want to see Dean’s face. “I need you to promise me something.”

            “Yeah, okay?”

            “Stick with Jo and Ellen. And Ash.” Sam said. “People like them, y’know—loyal, _good_ people, hunters…they’re a pretty rare breed, man. So, make it home base, or whatever, just…don’t let ’em go.” He glanced out the window, at the white-and-brown landscape scrolling past. “And protect Jessica.”

            “Protect her from _what_?”

            Sam mulled it over, decided it probably couldn’t hurt anything just to spill the beans now. Could only save lives. Probably.

            “Where I come from,” He said, quietly. “Jo and Ellen are dead. Jessica, too.”

            “Crap.” Dean murmured. “How?”

            “Blown up.” Sam shrugged one shoulder, tried to just shrug it off—didn’t work. Never had. “Jessica burned on the ceiling. Just like—”

            “Mom.” Dean’s voice was strained. “That’s why you didn’t go with me when I went to look for dad, huh?”

            “I knew it was coming,” Sam admitted. “And I just—I had to protect her.”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t blame ya.” Dean said. “What about Jo and Ellen, uh, how’s that one go down?”

            “Like I said. Blown up. Saving us.” Sam pulled in his bottom lip, then smiled slightly. “You spent a lotta time wondering what coulda happened with Jo. Nothing ever really happened between the two of you until she was sitting in a hardware store with her guts spilling out.”

            Dean just shook his head.

            The silence filled in every corner of the car, for a few minutes. Then Sam cleared his throat. “One other thing, Dean. Try not to fight with dad. I mean, the man’s got his problems. Our whole _family_ does. But you can’t lose him, too. So, when you find him. Y’know…just try to make things work.”

            “Sammy, what’s gonna happen when we bust that mirror?” Dean asked, and the question was completely left-field, so much so that Sam knew immediately that this was the thing that had been gnawing at Dean when they’d been leaving the Roadhouse. “Huh? You just, zap back to your reality, and the old Sam shows back up in this one?”

            “I dunno, Dean.” Sam shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, then let them fall back. “Not a lot of cursed-mirror stories to compare this one to. Maybe I just,” He paused. “Stop existing.”

            Dean slanted him a glance that told Sam it was the wrong thing to say. Then Dean shifted in his seat, sniffed sharply, and shook his head.

            “Can’t let that happen, Sammy.”

            “Yes, Dean. You can.” Sam said. He was convinced; hadn’t been more convinced of anything, for a long time.

            “Well, I’m not going to.”

            “I’m sorry, Dean, but you have to.” Sam insisted. “You’ve gotta learn to live without me, man. You and Dad. Don’t start sacrificing yourselves for me. You’ve got a life. You can catch Yellow-Eyes, you can make it. With or without me.”

            Dean grunted. “Yellow-Eyes? What the hell is a yellow-eyes?”

            Sam rubbed a hand across his forehead, then dropped his arm onto the windowsill. “The thing that killed mom. It’s a yellow-eyed demon. Azazel. Mom made a deal with him ten years before I was born. The night she died, he, uh,” Sam swallowed and looked down. “He was in my nursery. Bleeding into my mouth.”

            “Bleeding into your _mouth_?” Dean echoed with disgust. “What, is that some kinky demon thing?”

            “It was to make me stronger, Dean.” Sam said sharply. “Yellow-Eyes wants me to—” He broke off, his mind washing white with memories of everything he’d done: the psychic pulling, the demon blood, the Apocalypse. Dominos falling against each other, toppling all the way, straight down into the Cage. Into Hell.

            “Wanted you to _what_?” Dean demanded. “ _Sam_?”

            “Doesn’t matter what he wanted.” Sam said tautly. “If I’m gone, none of it happens anyway. I dunno,” He stared out the window, glanced at the dashboard—anywhere but at his brother. “Maybe it’s better that way. Y’know, maybe this world can be different. Safer. If I’m not here anymore.”

            Dean’s voice, quiet, and sincere: “Something tells me it won’t be.”

 

 

            The rain was letting up a little bit when Dean pulled up across the street from the Refraction Factory. The crime-scene tape was up, but the place looked deserted. Yahtzee. Dean drummed his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, checked Soulless in the backseat. Wasn’t asleep, definitely; but the dude had been quiet for a long time.

            Dean checked the rearview mirror. Whole street was empty. At least things weren’t flooded so bad in town, though. His main problem now was figuring out whether or not to drag Soulless inside, or leave him out here and hope Sam’s fuzzy Carebear soul could float its way outside and find him.

            Soulless stirred, shifting his head against the seatback. “I think I’m done.”

            “Done what? Screwing up our plans?”

            “Bleeding.”

            “Oh. Good for you.”

            “I’d offer you your shirt back, but—it’s pretty gruesome.”

            “Keep it.” Dean checked his watch; eleven thirty-eight. He draped one arm along the seat back, rocking his head against the headrest. “Hey, can I ask you somethin’?”

            “Shoot.”

            “Why don’t you want Sam’s soul inside you?” Dean traced patterns on the roof with his eyes. “And I’m not tryin’ to pick a fight, here. I really wanna know. I mean, are you _that_ much of a coward? Seriously?”

            Soulless kept quiet for a little while longer. “Remember how I told you I remembered what it felt like to have a soul?”

            “Yeah?”

            “It was hell, Dean. Even before Hell. The guilt that kid lives with, every minute of every day. It used to be, guilt about hunting. About having to lie to people. Then it was leaving you and dad. Then it was Jess. Honestly, if it’s not one thing, it’s another. And it chains me down; makes hunting a nightmare. I’m a better hunter without that soul, and we both know it.”

            “Not gonna fight ya on that one.” Dean sniffed. “You’re better at the job.”

            “Then why are you—?”

            “Because it’s not about the _job_ , man. It’s about the people. Whole reason we hunt in the first place! And sometimes you just gotta put your head down, plow it out and save as many people as you can. Even if it means you let the monster go.”

            “That doesn’t make sense, Dean. It’ll just kill again the next time it needs to. It’s surviving on animal instinct. Can’t help itself. That’s true of all monsters. They’ll just go back and do the same thing, all over again, as many times as they can, until someone stops them.”

            “Well, so will you.”

            Soulless didn’t have a comeback for that one.

            Dean checked his watch again.

            Twenty minutes to go.

 

 

            The snow was deeper inside the warehouse complex, shored up against the sides of the buildings by the blustering wind. They hopped the fence, one-at-a-time, and stalked across the wasteland of foot-high snowdrifts until they reached the edge of the first warehouse. Jo, pressed almost hip-to-hip with Ellen, tucked her chin into her collar.

            “It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out here.” She complained.

            “Perks of the job, sweetie.” Ellen checked around the corner, and Sam saw her lips move, counting silently. She pulled her head back. “The security camera’s on a swivel; faces away from us for thirty seconds. Gives us enough time to get in its blind spot.”

            “Can’t cover our tracks, though.” Dean pointed out.

            “Leave that part to me.” Sam handed his gun to Dean and pulled his arms out of his jacket sleeves, wrapping them tightly around his body. “You three, make a run for it.”

            “Where are you gonna be?” Dean demanded.

            “Right behind you.”

            “No time to argue.” Ellen said when Dean opened his mouth to push the issue. “On my signal. Try to step in each other’s footprints. ”

            She counted down, then swung around the corner and ran. Jo was half a second behind her, and with one last lingering look at Sam, Dean headed out after them. Sam took a deep breath, dropped to one knee in Dean’s bootprint, and started rolling.

            His whole world kicked into a dizzy storm of white flakes. He aimed himself in the general direction of the second warehouse, counting up the seconds until something hard crunched against his shoulder, stopping his spin.

            A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. “Dude, you look like a caterpillar.” Dean commented, brushing snow off Sam’s hair.

            “Thanks.” Sam’s teeth chattered as he surveyed his handiwork. His rolling had kicked a fine layer of snow over their footprints; looked more like tire tracks, which was less conspicuous and wouldn’t raise as much attention on grainy security footage.

            “Next part’s a little trickier.” Ellen said grimly. “Up and over. There’s a guardhouse right between this building and the next. Jo, that’ll be you and me. You boys, wait two minutes, then storm the warehouse. Ash’ll have the alarm off. Bust that mirror.”

            Sam nodded, the reality sinking into his bones that this was the last time he’d see Ellen and Jo alive. Whatever happened next, he had a strong feeling he wouldn’t be coming back to that warm Roadhouse again.

            “Thanks for all your help.” He said, awkwardly.

            “Sam, do me a favor.” Ellen  gripped his shoulder lightly. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re not outta this fight yet.”

            Sam nodded, his chest tight. “Take care of yourselves.”

            Ellen nodded, but didn’t loosen her grip. “Do me a favor. Back in your world, there’s something I want you to find for me. Five miles west of the Roadhouse, there’s a hunter’s safehouse. You’re gonna find something important there. Assuming the timelines match up, way they have so far.”

            “Uh…okay. Something important like _what_?”

            Ellen smiled. “Don’t wanna ruin the surprise.” She pulled him in for a brief but welcome hug. “Be careful out there, sweetheart.”

            “It was great meeting you, Sam.” Jo stepped up beside her mother, flashing Sam a beatific smile. “Hope things work out all right for you. Hey, if your old self drops back in, your cute little ass should come by more often.”

            “Joanna Beth!” Ellen snapped, and Sam chuckled wryly.

            “See you around, Jo.” He ruffled her hair and she ducked away indignantly, glancing at Dean.

            “Winchester! You coming by after this whole thing blows over?”

            Dean met Sam’s eyes, and Sam challenged him, silently, to break his promise.

            “Yep.” Dean dragged his gaze away from Sam and flashed a grin at Jo. “I owe you a Blackjack rematch, right?” When Jo smirked and nodded, Dean turned away. “Catch you two on the flipside. We’ll wait on the roof.” He nudged Sam with his shoulder. “C’mon, Sam.”

They headed for the narrow iron ladder set into the side of the warehouse, Sam checking his watch anxiously; less than ten minutes.

Once on the roof, they crossed to the opposite end of the building, and Dean sat with his back to the raised lip while he checked his gun. Which meant he was really doing some deep thinking; there wasn’t anything that needed killing on this hunt.

“Wanna talk about our feelings?” Sam teased lightly, sinking into the soft, thick layer of snow beside his brother.

“Shut up.” Dean groused, tucking the gun back into his waistband and yanking his jacket down over it. “Thirty seconds.”

There was a muffled thump beneath them, a half-syllable of surprise that cut off way too fast. Sam peered over the edge just in time to see Jo dragging a body back into the warehouse. Dean checked his watch, rocked his head from side to side, slowly, then got to his feet.

“Showtime.”

They hopped off the building onto the roof of the guardhouse, the impact jolting through Sam’s legs and into his spine. He rolled off onto the powdery snow and ran through the snow drifts to the edge of the third warehouse, Dean right on his heels. Sam glanced at the guardhouse, caught Ellen’s subtle thumbs-up through the blurry Plexiglas—and shoved the door open with his shoulder.

 

 

“All right, time to go.”

Dean grabbed Soulless by the shoulder and hauled him out onto the wet sidewalk; streetlights reflected off of puddles and made Dean’s tired eyes hurt. Soulless stood beside him, fidgety but not fighting his handcuffs, while Dean grabbed the blood-soaked shirt off the floorboards and shook it out. He checked the gash on Soulless Sam’s head; pretty deep. He was definitely on his way to stitches. Dean’s best guess, something sharp had been sticking out of the upholstery on that Buick and sliced him pretty good.

“You’ll live,” He said with as much professionalism as he could scrounge up, slamming the Impala’s door and grabbing the handcuffs by the links. “Go.”

Soulless followed the directive, stumbling a little bit off the curb. Dean almost felt sorry for the bastard; almost.

            They ducked under the crime scene tape, walked into the foyer. And Dean couldn’t say he’d missed this place, all the mirrors bouncing lights back off his field of vision. He narrowed his eyes, tugging uncomfortably on the little jagged edges of the cuts on his face. He was still gonna rip that shop-owner a new one. _Seriously_.

            “How long?” Soulless asked; sounded defeated.

            “Five minutes.”

            “I wanna make you a deal, Dean.”

            “I’m listening.” Dean swept the room from right to left with a glance, making sure nothing ugly was about to jump out at him.

            “If by some miracle you and Sammy manage to break the miracles at the same time—fine. He gets back in. But if he doesn’t, if something goes wrong, you let me go. And we never cross paths again.”

            Dean stopped, and finally looked at Soulless—seriously, _looked_ at him. He’d spent half ayear hunting with this guy, actually knew him, a little bit, probably more than he even wanted to. Thing about Soulless was, aside from the occasional whitey to keep his act up, he didn’t lie. Dude was blunt and honest and a lotta things Sam _wasn’t_.

            He just wanted to survive.

            “Yeah, we’ll see.” Dean gave him a shove toward the back room. “Doesn’t matter, though. Sam’s gonna get to that mirror on time.”

            “You sure about that?”

            Dean swallowed, hard.

 

 

            The inside of the warehouse felt musty, disused; Sam had a feeling the whole complex saw a limited amount of activity on a day-to-day basis.

            Dean found the lightswitch, flicked it on. It flooded the room in a grainy yellow glow from high up in the rafters. Sam studied his surroundings cautiously, moving through jumbled piles of disorganized imports from outside sources. And the whole place made his skin crawl, and his chest felt funny.

            It didn’t even take a whole minute to find the mirror; propped up against a stack of boxes smack in the middle of the room, uncovered. Bigger than Sam remembered it.

            And according to his watch, four minutes to go.

            “This is it.” Sam said quietly, running his flat hand over the glass.

            “Looks like a piece of junk.” Dean snorted.

            “Obviously, it gave _us_ some trouble.”

            “Eh. You got a point.”

            Silence, for a few seconds. Then Sam peered at his brother over his shoulder. Dean had the innocent act down to a science, studying the corners of the warehouse, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, Acting like he wasn’t scared as hell; wasn’t wondering what would happen to Sam.

            “Look, Dean.” Sam turned to face him. “Just…do me a favor?”

            “Anything.”

            “No matter what happens—to me. Please just keep fighting.” It came out faster than Sam had intended, but he figured, if he stopped, if he _thought_ about it, it would turn into a chick-flick moment and Dean would shut him up. “Keep swinging, don’t quit. For anyone. Find dad, stick with Jo.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the concrete floor between his feet. “Whatever you do, man, don’t trust a demon. I don’t care how good it sounds. And don’t say yes to Michael.”

            “Michael? Who the hell is _that_?”

            “Just—promise me, Dean!”

            “All right, all right, I’ll follow your Ten Commandments. You happy now?” Dean snapped.

            Sam couldn’t even muster up a smile. “Thanks.”

            He turned his back on Dean, faced the mirror.

            Dean grabbed the crook of Sam’s elbow, pulling Sam around to face him again. “Hang on a second. You sure you wanna do this, Sam?” He shot the mirror an accusatory look. “I mean, we’ve got _no_ idea what’s gonna happen when you bust that mirror. Chances are, you die.”

            “I know that.” Sam shrugged, shifting Dean’s hand off. “And that’s just a chance I gotta take.”

            “Why? Huh?” Dean faced Sam, forehead knotting, his posture tense, and visibly frustrated. “What is so _damned_ important on the other side that you gotta go Kamikaze for a chance to make it back over there?”

            Sam half-smiled, and shook his head. “If we get the chance, if things go the way we want them to…you’ll understand. Someday.”

            Dean glared him down, and Sam didn’t budge; and gradually, Dean started to loosen up. Until he finally stood down, slowly shaking his head.

            “You know what’s weird? I mean, this whole _thing’s_ weird, right? Sammy-Of-The-Future?” He teased, and that pulled a genuine smile out of Sam. “I dunno, man, it’s like…I don’t talk to you for two years, you’re basically the cosmic black sheep of the family. Next thing I know, you drop back in my life—”

            “ _I_ dropped back into _yours_?” Sam interrupted disbelievingly. “Pretty sure you were the one doing the breaking-and-entering, Dean.”

            “Eh. Whatever.” Dean shrugged. “Point is,” He looked away, flushing, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sammy, the point is we’ve been more like the brothers the last couple days than I remember us being since we were kids.”

            “Yeah.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad we got the chance.”

            “Yup. Same here.”

            “So, guess I’ll—see you around?” Two minutes to go.

            Dean nodded. Sam hunted around, grabbed a crowbar leaning against a nailed-shut wooden crate two rows over, and approached the mirror cautiously, his heartbeat kicking up in his chest. The timing had to be flawless, or he’d be trapped. In between.

            Or dead.

            “You might wanna stand back.” Sam said, and Dean fell back to the edge of the open square of concrete floor in front of the mirror.

            Sam stood poised, holding the crowbar like a baseball bat, watching his reflection dipping and rising in the mirror with every breath he took. Almost like the glass wasn’t glass; was water, or something else fluid.

            Time, contained in a frame.

            Sam was so focused on studying the rippling echo of himself and the room behind him, he didn’t hear the footfalls. Didn’t lift his head until Dean’s warning cry slapped his ears: “ _Sam, look out_!”

            And then, a sick, wet splatter of a knife driving home between ribs.

            And Sam, wild and wet eyed, staring at the shop owner with the rusty blade in his hands. The blade plunged to the hilt in Dean’s chest; Dean between them, hands wrapped around the shop owner’s wrists in an stranglehold.

            Because he’d caught the blow meant for Sam on his own body.

            “ _No_!” Sam’s furious scream got swallowed as Dean planted his boot in the man’s gut, knocking him hard against the crates. The top one wobbled, crashed down on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious to the floor.

            And Dean tumbled to his knees, sliding the knife out in a spray of blood.

            Sam dropped the crowbar, grabbing Dean’s shoulders as he sank backwards. “Dean! Dean, hey, man. C’mon!” Sam’s hand clutched desperately at the open, gushing wound. Knowing it was mortal; his mind still rebelling. He grabbed the side of Dean’s face, leaving smears of blood on days-old stubble. “No, no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s not supposed to happen like this—Dean!”

            Dean’s eyes were transfixed on Sam’s face; like he was memorizing it. “Go.”

            “I can’t…Dean, I can’t!”

            “Go, Sammy, dammit!” The corners of Dean’s mouth frothed blood. “Break—th’mirror.” He grabbed the collar of Sam’s jacket, pulling him down close. “Still my…little brother. Doesn’t matter. Universe, timeline—I’d die for you. In a second.” He released Sam, shoved him. “Get m-moving!”

            Barely conscious of the wet stains on his cheeks, more than blood, Sam lowered Dean to the floor, scrambled for the crowbar. He grabbed it, lifted it to strike, and looked down one more time.

            At Dean’s empty stare, the blood still leaking from the hole above his heart.

            Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

            And swung.

 

 

            One look at the mirror, leaning against the back wall of the Refraction Factory’s storage room, and Soulless panicked.

            He bucked, twisting Dean’s hold, digging the metal handcuffs into his wrists. Dean staggered, and Soulless jumped on that chance. He drove his elbow into Dean’s gut, knocking the air out of him, and managed to break free—almost dislocating a few of Dean’s fingers before he could slip them free from the chained links on the cuffs.

            Two steps toward the door, and Dean caught up with him; rammed the bastard against the wall, pinning his head there by a fistful of hair.

            “Not part of the bargain, pal.” He shoved Soulless down onto his ass on the floor, then grabbed an ugly fluorescent-orange glass cat off a display stand in the corner. “Sorry, little siesta and catch-up time’s been fun. But it’s time to get my brother back.”

            Dean spun around and winged the cast across the room. It busted the mirror, shattering both into a thousand pieces.

 

 

            Frozen tundra. Fiery plains. Sam was spinning across a landscape that shifted form and face so fast, he couldn’t remember who he was or where he was, or _when_. Just aware of existing, on some level. And that was it.

            A dozen white lights ping-ponging past him. Sam had a sense of being more than human; he was _vivid_ , raw energy and strength and power in form. He felt endless, infinite, eternal.

            And also very, very small.

            But there was something dragging him; pulling him back to solid ground. A piece of himself, reaching out. Reaching across the arctic waste and seas of fire.

            _S…S’m_.

            He slowed his descent, became aware of a feeling like a tide moving in and out of his chest again. Breathing. He was breathing, he was a _form_.

            “Saaaaaaaa…m. Sam?”

            Slowly, fuzzy outlines, blurred feelings returned. He had hands. Feet. Fingers. Toes. Sam flexed every one of them individually.

            Someone was grabbing his face. “ _Sammy_! You with me? Hey, hey, hey! Sam!”

            He felt like he’d been squeezed through an iron tube ringed with spikes; or like he’d been throwing up nonstop for hours. Sick, anemic, shaky, Sam pried his eyes open, staring through a fringe of lashes at a dark ceiling swept over with white strata. There were arms around him, supporting him, rough but protective.

            His head. Cradled on someone’s right arm. On _Dean’s_ right arm.

            And a sudden sense of danger bursting in his gut.

            Sam made it all happen in one fluid movement; sitting up while he was drawing his gun, leaning, firing over Dean’s left shoulder. Double-tap.

            The shop owner fell in a heap on the broken shards of the mirror, the knife he’d meant for Dean’s unsuspecting back rolling languidly across the floor.

            Whatever strength he’d had left was gone. Sam slumped and Dean caught him, bowing a little with Sam’s weight.

            “Geeze!” Dean made the word sound like a curse. “Stay with me, Sammy.”

            “M’okay, Dean.” Sam wheezed. “I’m fine.”

            “You sure? Here, lemee see those eyes.” Reluctantly, Sam cracked his lids apart again and met Dean’s green eyes belligerently. Dean studied him, his expression intent. Then he nodded. “Yep, that’s the Sam I know. Welcome back, man.”

            “S’good to be back.”

            Sam felt Dean looking over his head, toward the dead man and the jagged remains of the cursed mirror lying scattered across the floor.

            “Aw, dude.” Dean sighed. “So much bad luck.”

            Sam looked, out of the corner of his eyes, and for just a second remembered Dean dying in his arms; the other Dean, innocent, cocky Dean, while his older, roughed-up, wiser brother was holding on to him right now.

            Somehow, this broken, withering world just made more sense.

            “I’ll take my chances.” Sam said breathlessly, and turned his face toward Dean’s stomach. The smell of leather and whiskey wrapped around his shell-shocked soul.

            And eased the pain in his chest, at last.

 


	11. Epilogue

_April 19 th, 2012 _

_Lincoln Luxury Inn, Lincoln, Nebraska_

“Good news or great news first?”

            Sam looked up from where he was sitting on the bed, surfing the internet on his laptop, eyebrows up, as Dean walked into the motel room with a handful of convenience store food. He tossed a package of cookies Sam’s way, and Sam caught it without a shift in his expression.

            “Uh…great news, I guess.”

            “Bobby’s a-okay. Hospital got him patched up. Oh, and they bought the bike-riding accident story. Hook, line and sinker.” Dean flopped down on the other bed and opened a bag of Doritos. Taking a deep whiff of the artificially-cheesy flavor, he shook his head sharply, and smirked at Sam. “Bobby’s still a little sore that he had to go to the ER and you got off the hook with bathroom-counter stitches and a rag.”

            “Thanks for that, by the way.” Sam mentioned, rubbing a finger along the uneven line of sutures in his forehead. The story behind how he’d gotten _that_ one, he wouldn’t have believed if Dean hadn’t told him.

            They’d been stranded in town an extra day because the storms had washed the road out; at least, that was Dean’s excuse. Sam had a feeling Dean just wanted to keep him off his feet until he was sure Sam had bounced back from his out-of-natural-body experience. And while being back in his older, more mature body felt weird—there was a kind of darkness inside of it that Sam hadn’t noticed after Hell, because Hell was Hell and everything felt lighter and freer and better than _that_ —Sam was adjusting.

            Everything was caught up between them: Sam saving Jessica, Soulless showing back up, Ellen and Jo and Ash, and the floods. Coming back to this timeline felt like an electric shock, jolting Sam out of a dream. Everything was a little brighter here, a little more real. Things he hadn’t noticed, dimmed down on the other side.

            And a part of him still missed it.

            “What’s the good news?”

            “Checked in on all those people the cops found in Dewittle’s basement.” Dean added. “Most of ’em are healing up all right. Souls intact.”

            “But not all of them?”

            Dean crossed his arms and leaned back against the pillows. “Three are on their way out. Just wasting away. Nothing we can do about them, Sam. Souls just can’t back in their vessels.”

            “Wonder why.” Sam murmured, staring at the computer screen without seeing anything. Mulling over why he was the lucky one, damaged soul back inside a damaged vessel, while some innocent people were rotting in hospital beds. 

            “Quit it.” Dean threw a Dorito at him.

            “Quit what?” Sam scowled, brushing the chip onto the floor.

            “Beating yourself up. Nothing we coulda done, Sam. Fact is, we saved a lotta people that would’ve been worm food if we hadn’t broken that mirror.”

            “I know.” Sam sighed, scrolling down the home page of the news site. “Huh.”

            “Good ‘huh’ or bad ‘huh?’”

            “Looks like there was a break-in at the warehouse a few days after we—I mean, me and uh, you—from the past—after we went in with Ellen and Jo.”

            Dean sat up, interest sparking in his eyes. “Heist?”

            “More like the mirror vanished.” Sam frowned. “Maybe that’s why Ellen never had it destroyed. She couldn’t find it.”

            “And Dewittle had it?”

            “I guess so.”

            “What was that slimy little bastard’s angle, anyway?” Dean crumbled up the Dorito bag and lobbed it into the trashcan. “What’d he stand to gain from all the bodies rotting under his shop?”

            “Attention?” Sam shrugged. “You read the guy’s background too, Dean. Bottom of his class, bullied twenty-four seven, six siblings. Guy’s life wasn’t exactly easy. All the disappearances brought a lot of press to the shop. He had the spotlight, all of it.”

            “And now four people are gonna die for it. Awesome.”

            Sam’s mind traced back over the dozens of innocents he could’ve saved, on the other side of the mirror; here he was bumped back to normal, no more conscientious of the future than anyone else.

            It really ached inside of him.

            “People always do.” He snapped the laptop shut. “When’s the hospital gonna release Bobby?”

            “Coupla hours. Still wanna keep him under observation for a concussion.” 

            “Bobby? A concussion?” Sam chuckled. “The man’s got a titanium head.”

            “Believe me, _I know_.” Dean sat up with a stretch. “Butted heads with him enough to know it.”

            “Still think we should follow him back to his place?”

            “Man, I dunno about you, but after this job I could use a couple days outta the frying pan. Whaddya say?”

            Sam couldn’t exactly agree; not when the urge to _save people_ was still pulsing through his veins along with every beat of his heart.

            He cleared his throat. “Hey, before we go, there’s something I gotta do.”

           

 

            Fifteen minutes of driving brought them past the cleared lot that used to be the Roadhouse, the place like a desolate graveyard, no other cars around.

And that was where they found the safehouse.

It was ramshackle, two-stories, pure wood and crumbling on one side. They pulled up outside an hour before Bobby’s release, and Dean draped his arms over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield at the dilapidated structure.

            “Ellen sent you here.” He asked, and Sam nodded. “ _Here_?”

            “Gimmie five minutes.” Sam climbed out and shut the door, and Dean was one second behind him. “Dean. It’s fine.”

            “Dude, last time I let you run off on your own, you got blasted through a Romulan wormhole. I’m not taking my eyes off you, and that’s that.”

            Sam hid his smile and mounted the broken, moldering porch steps, pushing the front door open with an unoiled squeak.

            That it was a hunter’s safehouse became immediately apparent: an old line of salt scattered right inside the door. Devil’s Traps, floor and ceiling in the main room. They walked into the kitchen, boots stirring up a filmy layer of dust, and Dean went to the fridge, pulling it open.

            He winced. “Ugh. Dude, lamb’s blood.” He pulled out a rank jar and held it up to show Sam. “Seriously?”

            “Guess we know we have the right place.” Sam started pulling open cabinets, drawers, checking under the sink.

            “Hey, there’s a microwave dinner in here.” Dean commented, rustling through the freezer. “And a, uh—oh, gross. Dude, is this a severed head?”

            “Must’ve been a witch’s. Too powerful to destroy. _Leave it_ , Dean.” Sam added as Dean reached over to pick it up. “That thing’s probably cursed.”

            “Harvelles are crazy.” Dean grumbled, shutting the freezer. “I’ll make a sweep down here. You check upstairs.”

            “’Kay.”

            The wooden slats creaked dangerously as Sam climbed to the second floor. It was dustier than the first, charms hanging from the windows, wards painted on the walls. A real safehouse if Sam had ever seen one; strips of iron laid along the doors. He walked into the bathroom, pulled open every drawer and cabinet and turned up nothing but mouse droppings and overgrown spiders.

            The bedroom at the end of the hall reminded Sam of Bobby’s house; wallpapered, a thick layer of dust on the perfectly-made bed. There was a vanity on the far wall, and a picture wedged in between the wooden frame and the glass itself.

            Sam crossed the room and pulled the picture free, holding it up to the light slanting through the yellowed drapes on the window, trying to get a better look.

            Jo was the first face he recognized; her ear-to-ear, light-up-your-eyes smile hadn’t changed. She was in pigtails; and swung up in the arms of a man who looked an awful lot like her. Sam had never met Bill Harvelle, but he recognized him anyway.

            It was Ellen that surprised Sam; he’d never seen her look this happy, this carefree.

            His gaze was drawn to the mirror, and Sam saw his own reflection; older by far than it had been two days ago, rippling in the face of the cursed glass in the warehouse. He wondered if Jo and Ellen were still on the other side, and Ash. And Jessica. Everyone they’d saved.

            If they were just on the other side of the mirror, no farther away than the glass under his fingertips.

            Sam dragged his hand down the mirror, thumping it on the vanity.

            The mirror shook, and something white poked free of the rounded bottom.

            Frowning, Sam grabbed the scrappy corner of paper, and pulled it free.

            It was a note, folded over three times, the paper yellowed with age. Sam unfolded it against the vanity, leaned his flat palms on the dusty wood, and read it:

           

 _"I never saw a wild thing_  
sorry for itself.   
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough   
without ever having felt sorry for itself.”-D.H. Lawrence.

And signed in Ellen’s scratchy scrawl.

            Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, rereading it; and feeling like maybe, from the other side, they’d given him something that made his own screwed-up head, make sense.

            Ellen really did have a mother’s instinct. A mother’s _heart_.

            “Sam, you find anything?” Dean hollered from downstairs.

            With one last linger glance thrown over his shoulder, toward the mirror, Sam tucked the note and the picture into his pocket.

            He met Dean at the bottom of the stairs, hands shoved into his pockets.

            “Find anything.”

            Sam shook his head with a small smile. “Let’s just go.”

            Dean studied him closely, then rolled his eyes. “Freakin’ unbelievable.

            It was warm out, and sunny for the first time in days, according to Dean. Sam rolled down the window and rested his arm on the sill, closing his eyes, feeling the wind filling the inside of the Impala. Warm and alive. It felt—good.

            “So,” Dean said, breaking the sleepy lull. “Guess I gotta ask the million dollar question.”

            “Yeah, okay, sure. Shoot.”

            Dean’s mouth pulled up into half a smile, then settled back. “Why’d you do it, Sam? Huh? Why’d you come back?”

            “From…the mirror?”

            “Yeah. I mean, from what you told me, you had _everything_. Jessica. Dad. Jo, Ellen, Ash. Hell, you even had some freaky doppelganger of _me_ to hunt with. You coulda stayed over there, worked things out. Why’d you come back to this craphole world?”

            Sam thought about it; about how desperately he’d wanted to stay, how he’d been so sure he could do it. Just plant his feet and battle it out.

            And how one conversation, one voice, had changed that.

            “You know me.” Sam said, quietly. “You know I wasn’t going to leave you alone in this—craphole world.”

            He saw Dean’s fleeting smirk. “All right, bitch.”

            “ _Jerk_.”

            Dean reached over and cranked on the radio; a Def Leppard song spilled through the speakers as Dean headed town, on their way to pick up Bobby.

            Finally, back on the road again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it,_

_and the journey is always towards the other soul." —D.H. Lawrence_

           

 

 


End file.
